


Lightning Never Strikes Twice

by barcabrony (freolia)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, FC Barcelona, Jeez so much angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Repressed Memories, de-aged character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freolia/pseuds/barcabrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo makes an ill-thought wish on a stormy night, and doesn't anticipate the consequences. Gerard is forgetful at best. David is just very confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Or maybe it does...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> Written for a lovely OP at the new kink meme:
> 
>  
> 
> _Player A feels sentimental for the good old days when he played together with player B. Player A wishes for those times to be back; only what actually happens is that player B gets deaged (to how old he was when he played with A)._
> 
>  
> 
> _B 'wakes up' to a world where he is no longer best bros with A and freaks out._  
>  _Cue in player A who feels quilty and has no idea how to fix his silly wish._
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer (because I keep forgetting): I don't own any of these players or their image rights. Just think how miserable they'd all be if I did.

He’s sitting in a darkened hotel room in Madrid. Rain drops gently patter against the fogged-up window, and Leo just sits and stares out without seeing anything. His finger traces something he’s not aware of; his mind is thousands of miles away in New York.

He isn’t sure why now of all times he’s thinking of the other man, because Villa hasn’t crossed his mind for months (or he wishes he hadn’t). But Ney and Luis have gone out to get properly smashed after the victory with the rest of the team, and Leo must just be lonely.

Geri had looked at him, concerned, before leaving. He knows Geri wants him to be happy and protected, but seriously, he’s twenty eight now. 

_‘Not young and goal-crazy anymore’_ , his mind reminds him, and that’s true, isn’t it? He’s grown up a lot since David left, less goals but more moments of magic; they just don’t seem to sparkle as much anymore. David’s matured as well; the lines around his eyes are deeper than they were when Leo used to smooth them out with a joke about getting old together, there’s more of a frown now Leo can’t kiss it into a smile. He’s still got that soul patch though, and Leo snorts with laughter. David would die with that excuse for a beard, and his smile drops off his face; the thought of David and death, just-

He picks up his phone, suddenly desperate to check the other man is alright. They hadn’t spoken for a while either; every conversation seemed to end in a fight these days over the stupidest things. He misses the days when they didn’t even have to speak to bring a smile to each other’s faces, when their eyes could meet across a pitch with a silent promise (a promise of later when it was just the two of them.)

He scrolls through his contacts without thinking, straight to D (because David could be a bit of a D when he wanted to, Leo thinks with a grin).

There’s a second of hesitation before he presses call. And waits, desperate to hear his voice, even if David doesn’t want to hear his. The waiting was always unbearable between them, always a constant need for more, more, more. It makes sense that the distance was what killed them; more distance meant less David, less Leo, the pair of them spread too thinly to have a real flavour.

"Hola." The voice on the other end sounds neutral, if not a little pissed, and Leo feels a flutter in his heart. Because he sounds exactly the same as he always does, exactly the same as he did when he was Leo’s. 

_'Please don’t hang up.’_ Nervously, he responds. “Hey David, it’s Leo.”

Two seconds of silence. “Oh.” Another five before Leo can't take anymore.

Leo chews his lip. “I just wondered how you were doing.”

“Fine, Leo. Listen, now isn’t a great time…” David’s voice is softer than it was a moment ago, almost like old times. Leo still can’t let him go.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, chat for five minutes?” He rushes out. This is fine, he can do this. Just a friend, but friends talk don’t they?

David sighs on the other end of the line; Leo hates that he’s becoming an inconvenience when he used to be so necessary, but he doesn’t have enough self-respect to break this off. But David hasn’t hung up yet either, so he just keeps talking. 

“I saw your match, last week. You were great.” He says, because football is what brought them together and what tore them apart – football is everything to both of them. Football is guaranteed to keep David on the phone. 

“Yeah, right. Don’t kid me, Leo. I’m not who I used to be, and neither are you.” He adds softly, “You’re still brilliant.”

Leo can feel the blush in his cheeks, and wants to beg him to rethink his decision; Leo hasn’t felt himself since he stopped being a part of Leo-and-David. But he keeps talking (because friends talk, don’t they?)

“Do you remember,” he starts, “That first training match where Pep put us on the same team?”

There’s a soft laugh on the other end that makes his heart ache – it’s the laugh that David always saved for him.

“He didn’t make the mistake twice, to be fair. Poor Gerard, his face was a picture.” Both of them laugh. It’s not happy, it’s full of nostalgia and things-that-were, things that aren’t anymore. Leo briefly forgets about the distance when he closes his eyes, and if he tries, he can pretend David is next to him.

“I wish you were still here.” He whispers down the line, knowing that it’s too much, knowing that this isn’t just friend territory anymore, knowing that David will get angry.

Which he inevitably does. “Well, I’m not, Leo. I’m not good enough anymore, I’m too fucking old and injured, and – shit. Don’t bring this up again.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, you know I didn’t.” Leo argues back. This is pretty much how it always goes between them now, and he hates that he can’t back down. It’s – he doesn’t even know. He just wants David back, if not physically then at least in spirit.

“Well, that’s how you said it. Leo, I have to…”

A large bolt of lightning hits just outside the hotel, and Leo drops his phone in shock. He goes to pick it up straight away because David was talking and Leo always listens when David talks. But the line has already died, and his heart sinks to somewhere between his feet.

When he checks to make sure it’s not damaged, he sees that the signal has completely gone. He doesn’t care enough to wonder how there’s no signal in the biggest city in Spain, and just quietly gets ready to sleep, the latest argument still fresh in his mind.

One thought echoes through his mind as he drifts to a dreamless sleep; he wishes that things were the way they were before as lightning strikes the same place outside his hotel, illuminating a message smudged into the mist on the window.

(Te amo.)


	2. Here it goes, here it goes again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had a chance to spell-check/go grammar Nazi on my own ass yet, so if you see anything which is wrong let me know so I can fix it :)

When David wakes up, he wants to leap out of bed and sing – ok, nothing like that. That’s gross, and he has a reputation to uphold. But when he wakes, he feels amazing. He feels full of energy in a way he hasn’t for what feels like years, and it’s exciting to say the least; which makes him suspicious. Has he been drugged? He struggles for a moment to remember what he did last night. He remembers he argued with… someone. But no more details come to his mind, and he only remembers _that_ because he took ages to fall asleep, like he always does after an argument. It must have been someone important, because there’s still an ache in his heart. But he can’t think who that would be. There aren’t many people who have that kind of power to affect him. 

Maybe he got drunk? As in super-hangover-inducing-brain-pounding-shit-what-did-I-do drunk? That’s not his style though.

Shaking his head, he pulls himself up from his bed. Moving to the window for a quick glance, he smiles as he sees New York at his feet. But something feels off today as he looks at the city, almost as if he should be somewhere else – 

Screw this. When he finds out which teammate fucked with his drink last night, there’s going to be trouble. Obviously someone just thought it would be funny to see him displaced and confused, and it better not be Frank, the English bastard probably gets off on stuff like this. Or Pirlo. That guy had his head so far up his own arse…

David heads to the bathroom for a shower, pushing his stupid teammates out of his head for a moment. And then stops in amazement. Or horror. He’s not sure which, or why it’s either of them to be honest.

In the mirror, is his face. But it’s not his face, and that’s really confusing isn’t it?

He steps closer, scrutinising the person looking back. He looked like this yesterday, he knows he did, but he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t look like this. Too young. His face is smoother, his skin younger, his hair blacker. He almost thinks there should be streaks of grey beginning to show, but surely…

He moves a hand across one cheek – it still feels the same. It’s unnerving, because he knows this is his face, the chin tilts at the same time, the eyebrows quirk in confusion at just the right point, but he feels like he’s looking in a portal back in time. This isn’t _him_ , but it _is_. 

He’s going to fucking kill Frank. 

He finishes in the bathroom as quick as he can (anything to get away from that mirror), and checks his phone quickly.

There’s one text message.

_**From: Pulga x**  
im sorry about last nite. u know i didnt mean to hurt u._

Who the fuck is Pulga?

He ignores the text, because, sorry, that’s just weird. Did he hook up with someone last night? It doesn’t matter. He shoves his phone in his pocket, and makes his morning cup of coffee. He has a match this evening, and doesn’t need to be worrying about weird shit like this. 

They’re playing Orlando City, and everybody is psyched; it should be a great match, and David fully intends to make the difference. Even against someone like Káka, he knows he can be the best player on the pitch. 

He’s so focused on thinking about the runs he’ll make, the passes and crosses he’ll play to score the perfect goal, he doesn’t notice the blood that starts pouring from his nose until he sees the red mark against his white mug. 

He swears and grabs kitchen paper, pinching his nose and tilting his head back as he leans against the counter. He can’t even remember the last time he had a nose bleed, but he closes his eyes as a wave of dizziness hits and he sways on the spot, glad of something to hold on to. If he faints, there’s no way he’ll live it down with his teammates.

His phone buzzes in his pocket again but he ignores it; if it’s that creepy Pulga again, he’s reporting them to the police. Why does he have the number of someone who would choose to call themselves a flea?

It takes a while, but the blood eventually stops and he breathes a sigh of relief. The sight of blood has always unnerved him, and he needs to be relaxed and focused for this evening. He drops the soiled kitchen paper in the bin and heads out the front door. A quick work out would get his head on straight. 

*

It’s twelve at night, but Leo’s only just getting started. He’s perching on the edge of his sofa, Geri and Ney next to him. All three of them are watching the TV, the other two less intently as they dick about, shoving and laughing at each other.

It’s six in the evening in America, and Leo hates time differences so much. How can you connect properly if you’re seeing things in a different light? 

Too many nights, he’d stayed up late, because it was the best way of seeing the man he used to love (used to? Who’s he really kidding here?). New York FC is playing, (more importantly, _David_ is playing, but he isn’t going to say that out loud), and they’re absolutely dominating.

Or more specifically, David is dominating. Leo is really confused, not because Guaje is playing well (because he’s a brilliant, beautiful player), but. Well.

It’s probably a trick of the light. It must be, because David’s face is so much younger than Leo’s become used to seeing. And maybe he could accept that that’s from the camera.

But he’s so much _better_ than Leo’s been used to seeing recently as well; he’s quicker, nipping past defenders with ease, and simpler somehow while infinitely more complicated. He’s turning football into art with his turns and passes which look too easy to be true, and Leo is seeing intense bursts of his favourite former teammate shine through; it’s like staring into the Sun. It wrenches, and he _must_ be imagining it out of some new-born desperation.

(It would be rude to think that he’s not playing _quite_ right because the people he’s playing with aren’t good enough – aren’t Barcelona).

When he mentions this though, Geri just shrugs (“I guess,” he mumbles non-committedly through a mouthful of crisps), and Ney would have no idea anyway. Not to be dismissive or anything. 

The clock ticks down to ninety minutes quickly (or it seems anyway, because watching this match is almost like living in the past, and good things always pass too quickly), and David keeps going, keeps making his perfect runs and freeing the passing lanes that Leo is used to.

The score line is almost becoming embarrassing, because Orlando honestly aren’t that bad. David’s just much better, way too good for this league.

Ninety flashes up on the clock, and the referee blows his whistle three times, a death knoll for Orlando. The stadium erupts in celebration, but Leo only has eyes for David who’s high-fiving Lampard. Jealousy spikes in his lower stomach. ‘ _Me. He should be high-fiving me after such a good game. Well maybe more than a high-five…_ ’ he thinks silently and tries not to blush at the thought, not letting his face change.

On screen, something changes. A look of shock passes over David’s face, before his eyes roll back and he crumples to the ground as chaos breaks out.

Leo just stares, his mouth open and heart beating way too fast. He’s in the wrong place, the wrong city, the wrong country, with the wrong people (who have fallen silent in worry). He should be with David, and he wants to laugh, to cry, that even after three years, a messy break-up (or is that a Messi break-up, a voice that sounds like Geri whispers) and countless stupid arguments, he’s still fucking smitten. But he can’t and he won’t, because David is lying motionless in the middle of the wrong expanse of green and he’s too worried right now to do anything - he should be with him, not staring stupidly at a TV in Barcelona.

He forgets the game, forgets to breathe until Geri gently prods him, telling him that they’ll be going, to call if he needs anything. Reality snaps back into place and his vision expands from the screen, blood forcing itself through his veins again. The Spaniard on the screen opens his eyes at the same time, but Leo doesn’t notice as he turns to his friends. 

Two worried gazes are watching him as though he might pass out himself, and he tries to smile, to reassure them. It’s not convincing in the slightest, but they both get up to go. Geri can read the signs too well, and knows that Leo really won’t welcome his presence right now, and Neymar’s even less (how can Ney even begin to understand him and David?).

The coverage of the game ends as the front door shuts with a crash (Geri just couldn’t resist noise), and Leo’s left staring blankly at some advert for toothpaste or tampons or something which he doesn’t understand, least of all because it’s in English.

He’s worried, and confused, and with the inkling that he might have done something last night, even if he’s not sure how yet.

He sends another text to David, asking him to respond when he’s ok, even if the previous two texts were unanswered. He just needs to know, even if David hates him now. (When did David ever hate him though?)

Leo doesn’t sleep that night, his heart and mind rooted in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, I'm always happy to hear what you thought. Next update will be soon but I'm back to school tomorrow, so my time will be more limited. Thanks for reading!


	3. Blameless and Shameless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you have two tests to revise for, coursework due in the next day and a statistics past paper to finish, but you trawl through football RPF instead...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

David wakes up with a pounding headache and a vague sense of anger. He’s not really sure what he’s angry about to be fair, maybe he just likes being angry.

There’s also a horrible sensation of nausea, and he rolls over straight away to throw up because he’s been drunk and retching enough times to know that you should never throw up on your back.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and groans. Somebody pats his back and says something comforting. Fuck them. They should take their stupid comfort and shove it up their-

Oh. He’s still on a football pitch. This realisation hits him suddenly, the green field and stands suddenly making sense. That would explain the medics and screaming of thousands of people then. And why he’s shivering through a kit which is too thin, considering it’s winter and he’s Spanish, and why twenty people are standing and staring at him worriedly.

Shit. This is embarrassing.

He turns to the person who was patting him; of course it’s Kaka. Of bloody course it is. 

“David, can you hear me?” The words finally cut through the ringing in his ears, and he nods. Fuck, too much movement. He turns his head to the side again, and his teammates step back. He’s almost pissed that they’re thinking more about their boots than him, but he’d do the same.

He groans pitifully again, and Kaka looks at somebody with a worried glance. There’s a medic at his side in an instant, pulling at him to stand up, and he finds that insanely annoying. He would have stood up already if he could, what is he doing?

The medic realises that he’s getting nowhere and screws his mouth up for a moment as he thinks. 

Kaka keeps talking to him, and he tries to listen as he stares at his boots, but he hears a different voice; _‘focus on one thing, Guaje, it’ll help. Focus on me if you want._ ’ There’s a voice in his head, and maybe this is a sign he’s lost it. The voice is familiar, flirting with a laugh which isn’t used to flirting; if this isn’t a sign he’s crazy, it’s certainly going to drive him mad. Imaginary people in his head, trying to hook up with him. Damn, that’s a new kind of crazy.

He pushes the voice away, and keeps looking at his boots, tracing the lines of his laces with his eyes as Kaka’s soothing voice flows through his mind. The nausea gradually fades away, and he thinks maybe he can stand, so he pushes himself up before they realise what’s happening, and – 

Shit. Bad idea. He stumbles and almost falls but Frank’s there to steady him, a hand across his back to hold him up. The fans cheer at seeing him on his feet, and he almost smiles. Being a footballer is so great. He gives a thumbs up before stumbling down the tunnel with Frank’s help.

The coach gives him an appraising look as they enter the locker room, the team filtering in behind them.

“You alright, David?” He asks with the air of a concerned teacher who might get in trouble if a student gets hurt.

He manages to nod, slower this time, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing to stop himself throwing up. 

“Good to hear. Was worried that the game had got to you. You were fantastic out there, I want to see more of that. Good job, everybody! David was man of the match, but none of you were poor, by any stretch. Go home and get some rest, we’ll talk more at training tomorrow. Villa, I want to talk for a sec, hang about.”

David sits quietly as the team gradually leaves, feeling the blurriness in his mind gradually recede. He checks his phone, and sees two more messages. Furrowing his eyebrows, he reads:

_**From: Pulga x**   
call me? im really sorry. _

_**From: Pulga x**   
shit, guaje, please be ok? text me when ur ok, yeah?_

Seriously, this was starting to get a bit creepy. He makes a decision.

_**To: Pulga x**   
sorry, dont think i know u? who is this?_

He silently congratulates himself on the lack of swear words before the door slams shut behind his last teammate. The coach regards him thoughtfully for a moment.

“David, you were something else on that pitch. I’ve never seen you play that well, what’s going on?”

He frowns, confused. He always played like that, didn’t he?

“Nothing, I don’t think….” He replies, a little offended.

His coach stares at him challengingly. “So, you’re not taking anything? Because I’ve never seen you that fast, either. And players don’t randomly gain pace. Is there definitely nothing you have to tell me?”

David thinks for a moment. This is getting really weird, but he _did_ feel … energetic when he woke up. And there was that business with the mirror, and the nose bleed...

He shakes his head. “Just a fluke, I guess.”

His coach still looks suspicious, but mildly relieved. “That’s good. I don’t want to lie, David, keep up that form and you’ll attract some European heavyweights. We’d love to keep you, but if that’s how you can really play, you might be too good…” He trails off with a sad smile, and David tries not to get too excited. 

Playing in Europe? That was where the best players played, people like Messi and Ronaldo, Suarez and Neymar, Iniesta and Casillas. He would _love_ to play in Europe with his international teammates.

He gives his coach a rare smile. “I’ll have to keep working hard for you then, Míster.”

*

Leo’s phone buzzes at half one in the morning, just as he’s beginning to drift off to sleep. Usually he could ignore it, but he’s still too stressed from earlier, and he's being shifting and stirring at the slightest rustle.

He rolls over and stares at the screen uncomprehendingly for a moment. 

_**From: Guaje :) x**   
sorry, dont think i know u? who is this?_

He sits up properly in his bed, still not understanding. Is this a joke? 

But he can feel his heart sinking already, because David would know that a joke like that isn’t funny; so he’s either hit his head and hurt himself, or has removed Leo from his contacts and doesn’t recognise the number. He isn’t going to consider the alternative. 

_**To: Guaje :) x**   
Are you joking? This is Leo_

Because he has to make sure, doesn’t he?

Leo stays up until three, waiting (hoping) for a response, but there’s nothing in return, no answer, and he thinks that this is so much worse than a flat out rejection, this hurts worse than a ‘fuck off’ ever could (honestly, you got used to that when you dated David).

He finally drifts off to a sort-of sleep, tossing and turning all the way through. He can’t get comfortable, thinking about David; he’s not well, that’s clear from the fainting. And he’s possibly pushing Leo away now (and God, Leo understands, but he still doesn’t think he could survive it if he is).

He looks like a mess when he arrives at training later in the day, dark circles under his eyes and skin a shade too pale from the lack of sleep.

Luis is the first to pick up on it; “Leo, I thought I was supposed to be the vampire!”

Everybody laughs, and he grins weakly in response, but doesn’t say anything, just pulling his boots on before jogging to join his teammates.

He doesn’t join in with the light-hearted banter that gets flung between his friends because he’s just not in the mood for anything really. He hasn’t slept enough, or eaten enough, or tried hard enough to let himself join in properly, so he focuses on the ball at his toes and the grass beneath his shoes. That usually does the trick, but today it’s not enough.

He strikes the ball at the far goal in anger and doesn’t look long enough to see it go in. Ney starts to fangirl, but he just _doesn’t care_ because it’s been three fucking years now; why can’t he let go?

Ball after ball hits the back of the net, and he imagines that he’s kicking his troubles away. David’s broken leg; smack, back of the net. Six hour time difference, bounces in from the crossbar. The fucking Atlantic Ocean would be a glorious free kick if Leo cared enough. David… he can’t bring himself to kick the final ball. He stalks away, angry with himself as well now.

“He’s angry.” He hears Geri idly comment to Andrés. “He always smashes in three long-distance shots when he’s angry.”

Doesn’t he have a right to be angry? Maybe he doesn’t. Who cares anyway? He’s too tired to care.

Lucho eventually calls an end to the session and gathers them in.

“I saw some good things today, guys. Obviously, there’s still stuff to work on. Luis, Ney, Leo,” he looks at the three of them, and when he turns to Leo, there’s concern on his face. “We need to start looking for a backup striker in case of injury. Winter transfer window is coming up, any ideas?”

And Leo honestly would try to stop himself if he had any sense of self-respect left.

“David.” He says straight away, louder than he’d intended. Luis still has his mouth open to suggest someone else, Geri looks somewhere between angry and confused, Andrés has a pitying expression on his face (Leo hates it, he doesn’t want pity). Ney just looks really confused, bless him.

“Silva?” Lucho asks, confusion clear on his features. Of course he would assume the talented attacking midfielder.

Leo looks down, embarrassed now. He spoke too quickly, too desperately. People aren’t supposed to catch on. But he’s not just being desperate, David looked like the player he used to be last night. Maybe… maybe Leo isn’t just daydreaming this time.

“Villa.” He mutters in response. Nobody says anything for a moment and when Leo looks up, he sees a strange expression on his coach’s face. 

“Villa? But he’s never had any European league experience. What makes you suggest Villa?”

Wait, what? Playing for three Spanish top league sides isn’t proper league experience anymore? Leo decides to let it go. That sort of stupid remark doesn’t deserve a response.

“He had a _brilliant_ match last night.” Leo manages defensively.

Geri snorts. “One match hardly makes him Barcelona material, Leo.”

Seriously? This had to be a practical joke or something. Why were they acting like David was some inexperienced teenager? He was the top scorer in the South African World Cup for crying out loud! But nobody’s laughing, and Leo feels the need to cry. He’s too tired to laugh this shit off.

Lucho still has a strange expression on his face though, and he’s nodding now. “I saw some of that on the news this morning. He outclassed everyone on the pitch. We’ll monitor him. We’ve still got a couple of months, and it would only be as a backup…” He trails off with a slight smile. “Ok, well done today, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The coach walks off, a confused smile still on his face.

Just for now, Leo lets himself hope. He lets himself dream. Maybe… maybe David can be his partner again.

(He’s not just talking about football.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petition to bring David back to Barcelona anyone? Or at least move him into the same house as Leo, the world is sorely lacking more Messilla.


	4. The Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one's a bit of a filler. Will update later to make up for it when I have time :)

He checks his phone when he finally gets home that evening, almost expecting the message he finds there now.

_**From: Pulga x**  
Are you joking? This is Leo_

And now he doesn’t know what to do. This person obviously thinks he knows David, but he has absolutely no knowledge of any Leo’s. He doesn’t know any Leo’s… does he? His mind itches in the way that it often does now when he thinks he should know something. Like there’s an empty hole where something’s been dug out. (He doesn’t try to dig deeper; thinking still hurts.)

But now his… fan? Stalker? Potential hook-up? Whatever, now they have a name and the beginnings of an identity. At least he can change the name in his contacts – that ‘x’ is beginning to make him feel sick. What should he do? There’s only one answer really, considering who he is.

_**To: leo**  
knock knock_

_**From: leo**  
whos there?_

(David can almost hear the exasperated sigh in his mind, and he wonders why it’s familiar.)

_**To: leo**  
leo_

_**From: leo**  
leo who?_

_**To: leo**  
i dont know, I HAV NO FUCKING CLUE WHO U R_

_**To: leo**  
but srsly, leo who?_

_**From: leo**  
ffs david, im 2 tired for this.im going 2 assume ur ok since ur being a fucking twat again. dont text me_

Well. That didn’t really go to plan. Maybe he just has a wrong number? This Leo seems to know David a lot better than David knows him. Or it could be an insane fan. That also fits the bill.

He doesn’t reply back to the number, and receives no more texts from the mysterious Leo. (He still checks his phone with an odd hope though, and doesn’t understand the disappointment when there are no new messages.)

He puts him from his mind, and for a few weeks he just thinks about football. Which is going better than ever, because he can feel himself getting quicker and better with the ball. He feels amazing, he plays amazing, and talk of his performances starts getting more regular as he keeps bossing the pitch.

It doesn’t take long for transfer rumours to start, and while he personally hears nothing, they’re still exciting. People actually think he could play in Europe. There are even whispers or Real Madrid and Barcelona, the elusive reigning monarchs of football. He loves the idea of either of them; he would pick a side obviously, he wouldn’t go for both like some do, and he likes to think he could become a club legend for one of them…

Dreaming occupies his nights, football occupies his days, and he doesn’t mention to anyone the blood on his pillow when he wakes up every morning like clockwork, no matter how many times he changes the pillow case. He doesn’t mention the dizzy spells that hit after the end of every 90 minutes, the way sometimes he collapses in his apartment to wake up a few seconds later. He doesn’t mention the retching, the dry-heaving every evening, or the increasing worry that maybe he’s fucked up in the head.

People will only worry, and there’s nothing to worry about. He’s David Villa, striker extraordinaire, and this is _definitely_ nothing to worry about. (But just in case, he goes to a doctor. No sign of brain tumour is the only thing he hears before he’s back out to a celebration kick-about, worry still seeping through his veins.)

December ends with a bang of fireworks and clinking glasses, spending time with his family and friends (and still feeling there’s something missing), and January arrives on a fresh and snowy New York breeze, blowing open the transfer window. And overnight, David goes from a MLS player to the most in-demand striker in the world. How’s that for a start to the New Year?

His agent calls him, over-excited and wide-eyed at some of the offers; (“Arsenal are offering £30 million – Chelsea will spend £40 million! You don’t even want to _know_ what Man United have got.”) But something tells him to wait. His gut doesn’t agree with England, and there’s a pull to Spain, one he can’t identify. Maybe it’s just because he’s Spanish, and he wants to go home?

The offers keep rolling in, his teammates keep alternating between taking the piss and congratulations, his coach urges him to take _something_ , and David still doesn’t feel any of the offers are the right one. 

It’s the 15th of January, half way through the transfer window, when he gets a call at two in the morning.

“Real Madrid want you! £45 million, they’ve said! Don’t you _dare_ say no!”

It’s a moment of such obvious realisation for him as he hears the words, that he wonders how it never struck before; it doesn’t matter if Real Madrid want him, because _he doesn’t want Real Madrid_. While he was so busy fantasising about a new club, his heart chose one for him. 

He can almost feel the claret and blue stripes shining on his shoulders, like he was always meant to wear the Blaugrana. The flag of Saint Jordi feels at home on his chest and the sight of the crest is _oh_ so familiar for reasons unknown.

He apologises to his poor, stressed out agent and hangs up. There’s only one club he wants to wait for.

*

Leo feels his legs moving in a certain direction, and he knows logically where he’s going. But his heart is not quite with him, not in the right place; it’s currently jammed in his throat. 

Earlier, Lucho had called him (way too early. He isn’t getting enough sleep.)

“Leo, you know you were asking about Villa?”

Leo had rolled his eyes – Lucho always got straight to the point. But the name he’d mentioned had caught his attention.

“I talked to the chairman, and he said it was a maybe. So I said, if _you_ went and tried to convince him, would that be ok?”

There had been a nervous panic, because Leo hates talking in front of people, hates it when people watch _him_ and not his football, but he’d forced himself to relax. He‘s the hero of Barcelona. He could, _would_ make this work. Lucho knew what he was doing (Leo really hopes so anyway.) This was for David. Although after that last text conversation, he wasn’t as sure. 

It had been rude and… hurtful. There aren’t really right words for how he feels about it, because on the one hand, it was _so David_ , callous and funny, and Leo could almost hear the laugh behind the words. 

But. He’s tired (always tired these days), and he had wanted to see if David was ok. Not be completely rejected, not only as a former partner but as a person. Everybody seemed to be playing a big fucking joke on him, because he _knows_ David played here before; why else would he have his phone number? Why else would he bother texting him? Why else would there be a big fucking hole in his chest since he’d left?

(He doesn’t like to think about the way that the internet almost thought he was a different person as well; Geri must have hacked his computer.)

But the door to the meeting room looms in front of him now, and he takes a deep breath. This has to work. Even if David’s a royal prick. Leo just… needs him back. For better or worse.

He takes a deep breath. He needs to do this, if things have a chance of ever getting back to normal.

(Because what is normal if not David by his side?)


	5. Déjà Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I know I said this would be up like a week ago, but... then Barcelona spectularly imploded. At least they're playing better now, and Leo got his 500th goal! Apologies for the quality of this chapter though.

David fiddles with his phone in nervous irritation. The chair he’s been sitting on for half an hour now is too hard, and he really hates waiting. He’s tired as well – his agent is beginning to develop a nasty habit of calling him in the early hours of the morning, and this had been no exception.

“David!” The shrill scream had forced him to move the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Barcelona! You! Want! Money! Go flight now!”

Or something to that effect. He’d been _really_ tired. But he’d jumped onto the next plane anyway because this is something he knows he wants. He needs this for reasons he can’t even _begin_ to explain to himself. He doesn’t know when he became quite so dissatisfied with the American city, the city that never sleeps, but something had finally released in his chest when the plane landed in the Spanish city, relief flooding his nervous system. 

And now, he waits. His agent occasionally shuffles next to him, buried in a book since it became clear they would be waiting. Out the window he can see the Camp Nou rising far above and even without seeing the pitch, the sight fills him with anticipation and excitement. He’s going to play there. He’s going to play with Messi and Iniesta, Piqué and Neymar: true legends. If he works hard enough, maybe he can be one too... 

But for now, all he knows is that there’s a contract for him to sign, and he’s going to sign it, even if his agent wants him to go for a bigger one with a different club. He just wishes they could bring it a bit quicker.

On cue (he wonders why that always seems to happen), the door is pushed open, and a ratty, middle aged man in a suit walks in with a creepy smile forced on his face and some papers held against his chest. 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Señor Villa. We’re just waiting on two more, one of them has only just finished training.” 

The man’s voice is higher than he’d expected it to be and he restrains the urge to laugh, mentally slapping himself instead. Bad, David, that’s rude. The second sentence takes a minute to sink in and immediately piques his interest. Who else could be coming? It must be the coach, he decides. Maybe Luis Enrique wanted to greet him personally?

The older man takes a seat on the other side of the table, and stares out the window. He doesn’t say anything else and the silence quickly becomes awkward. David glances down at his phone again. Maybe he could mess with that Leo a bit more…

The door opens once more, and an older woman marches in – David wants to say it’s a strut – with a serious expression on her face.

“Sorry I’m late. I was held up by some idiot on the phone.” She grimaces at David (he wonders if it was meant to be a smile), before turning to the other man. 

She says something quickly in Catalan. David catches a few words but not much – only enough to catch the name, Messi. He notices the way his pulse quickens at the name and immediately feels embarrassed. He needs to get over his hero worship as soon as possible; Messi did not need him getting overexcited every time he did anything. He had enough to worry about, without being concerned about David potentially stalking him.

“Sorry again for the delay, we’ll get started now.” The rat-man smiles creepily again, and his agent puts down his book.

David can’t help his curiosity though. “Aren’t we waiting for one more?”

The two Barcelona staff make eye contact briefly.

“We were, but he’s going to be late. There’s no point making you wait longer.” The woman says with no expression. David doesn’t even know why he’s disappointed. Only that he was expecting someone else, that there’s someone missing. 

“So, we’ve drawn up a preliminary contract which we want to talk through with you. Your agent was sent a copy already of course, but he seemed happy with most of the terms.”

David just nods. He’s honestly happy with anything at this point. As long as he’s getting paid enough to live on. So he lets his agent do the talking and just nods in the appropriate places. Why couldn’t they just give him a bloody pen already?

He doesn’t even notice until it swings open that he’s been watching the door. The other three heads swivel to look, and David already half expects the person who walks in.

*

Leo blinks as he pushes the door open, the room inside a lot brighter than the corridor. He sees the man in charge of player contracts (one day he’ll remember his name, he’s just a very forgettable person) and Ana; he likes Ana, she always makes sure he has access to the pitch when he wants it. 

“Sorry I’m so late, there was a problem with Geri and Ney. Permanent marker is all you need to know.” He apologises as he enters. Honestly, his teammates could be so stupid. He would never understand Geri’s obsession with terrorising Ney.

They both laugh indulgently and wave off his apology. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look across the table and there he is; after all this time. 

Immediately he has to restrain the gasp that threatens to escape. It hadn’t been a trick of the cameras; six years hadn’t just been lost through countless screens and cables. David _is_ younger, and he has no idea how that’s possible, he has no idea why he’s so sure, he just _knows_. The other man is looking at something on his phone, a bored expression on his face, black jeans, a smart t-shirt and a stud in one ear. Just like before. 

This is the David who took his first steps in Barcelona six years ago, fresh from winning the World Cup, the David who knows he’s bloody brilliant and can’t wait to show it off on the pitch. This is like a window into the past, showing Leo the man he first fell in love with (and never really fell out of love). He doesn’t understand at all, this is _not working in his brain_ , but he gulps and takes a seat. No one else in the room would understand.

This really isn’t fair. The universe isn’t just letting him suffer in silence anymore, this is outright torture – to bring David back, exactly the same way as before and nobody else sees it…

“David, shall we get back to the contract?” His agent prods him and he finally looks up, straight at Leo. His eyes widen and he jerks back in his chair.

Leo doesn’t notice; the look sends electricity sparkling down his spine and sets his nerves on fire; he instinctively blinks and looks away, clenching his fists in pain – and the eye contact is broken. Leo’s heart starts to slow down again and he takes a deep breath. What the hell was that?

He chances a glance back up; the other three didn’t notice anything, but David is breathing hard, his face pale as he stares at the table determinedly. David’s eyes flick up and meet Leo’s once more. Leo braces himself for the shock this time but there’s nothing – only the pain of loss that lances through his heart like it’s been doing too often lately. There’s no sign of recognition on the other man’s face either, and Leo feels the last hope of things going back to normal dying. This isn’t just a cruel joke, because David is a crap actor. This is reality now. Maybe he’s going mad; maybe the pressure of being at the top for too long has finally cracked him.

David’s eyes are purely curiosity and admiration now, the way they were six years ago. He doesn’t want admiration though – he wants _his_ David back, the one who was quick and funny, always a joke on his tongue and the perfect pass at his feet. (Even if his David had years of bitterness from rejection and a broken leg resting under the surface.)

He has to try one last time.

“Guaje?” He whispers across the table desperately. He just wants to hear him call him pulga again – he’d hated that nickname until David had started using it too.

But he’s greeted with a blank stare. Leo looks at him and with sudden clarity, he knows what happens next; his feet are already moving across the floor to catch the lost piece of his puzzle as David’s eyes roll back in his head and he slumps sideways off his chair.

(“Will you catch me if I fall?” David had laughed, voice mocking but happy as he stared at Leo. Leo laughed back, “Since when have you been so sappy?” David lightly slapped the back of his head. “Seriously, you’re bigger than me, how the hell am I supposed to catch you?” Leo had sniggered as David scowled before stalking off, missing the last word. “Always.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fic exchange coming up; it's not purely for football fic, but football rpf has been nominated. Anybody else fancy it? More info [here](http://npt-admin.dreamwidth.org/) :)


	6. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olé! Barça are back on track, the only thing that could make me happier is if David actually _did_ go back to Barcelona ;)
> 
> This might be update schedule from now as I'm beginning to hit exam season again :/ will do my best to keep them regular though!

David has one thought upon waking up; he fucking hates fainting. Like, seriously, with a passion. 

But maybe waking up like this wasn’t so bad, because while his eyes are still closed, it’s like a long-forgotten dream. Somebody he used to know is speaking quietly, sweeping fingers across his forehead in worry, and he feels safe at last like this, like he could lie here for hours, days, years without getting tired of that wonderful voice.

But some part of him knows that he has to get up, and he reluctantly shifts his eyelids. Everything changes when his eyes open; the dream ends, and Lionel Messi is crouching next to him, _way_ too close. In shock he sits straight up and wriggles backwards too quickly.

“Fuck!” He curses as his head slams onto the table which he now remembers he was seated at.

“David?” He opens his eyes to see Messi looking at him with the strangest expression on his face; it’s somewhere between heartbreak and longing, worry and hope before it's shuttered away out of reflex, and it makes his heart pang in a way he doesn’t really remember anymore.

This is flat-out creepy (or it should be), because he’s known the guy for all of a brief glance and a wake-up. Thinking of the eye contact makes him screw his eyes shut in pain; it’s like poking an amputated limb without knowing what used to be there and there’s still an ache in his back muscles like he’s been given an electric shock.

He’s suddenly aware of the fact that there are still three other people in the room. And staring at him. For fuck’s sake, why does this always happen?

He scowls, the expression suiting his face muscles perfectly, and Lionel almost looks relieved. He still hasn’t moved from where he was sitting by David, his legs locked in an uncomfortable position - but his hands are secured firmly to his sides (maybe he imagined that part?).

His agent scurries to his side. “David! What was that? Are you ok? Do you need a doctor?” The fussing grates on his agitated mind, and he slaps away the hand that comes to feel his forehead. He doesn’t want anyone touching his head right now.

“I’m fine.” He says dismissively, closing his eyes. There’s another headache wrenching his brain and if he could just have some quiet…

The rat-man flaps his hands for a moment before finally managing to speak.

“Well, I think it’s best if we leave this for today. I don’t think David can cope -”

Fuck no, he’s strong enough for this. He pulls himself to his feet with the table and smiles (or he thinks it’s a smile).

“That’s ok, I can do this.” He cuts across, still holding this horrible excuse for a grin. The other woman frowns for a moment before nodding.

“If you’re sure…”

They finish going through the contract eventually. Lionel mumbles something about what a great club it is; David sees his agent getting agitated out the corner of his eye, but he can’t focus on anyone else other than the brilliant forward in front of him.

Something about Messi just doesn’t seem right to him. The man is the same age as him but… that’s not right. He feels almost as though he should be older than the other man. Which is keeping him on edge because he’s the perfect age right now – he’s in the prime of his career, about to play for the greatest club in the world. How could it even occur to him to think he should be older?

It’s not even just that – he _wishes_ it was just that. There’s a pull to Lionel Messi, a sense that there’s more to the pair of them than complete strangers, a desire to be closer to him, a feeling that he _knows_ him. It’s maddening because it doesn’t make sense; this isn’t just hero-worship, because he doesn’t feel over-excited. More like he’s coming back into his home after a long time away on holiday to find that the keys don’t fit the lock.

He hates this feeling; it stabs at his nerves when they formally shake hands, officially teammates at last. Neither holds the grip longer than necessary, and he suspects Lionel felt something similar.

But the fact he misses the touch as soon as they let go pisses him off, and everything that makes him want to get closer pushes him away from the shorter man with the sad, longing eyes.

It takes him hours to fall asleep in his new temporary flat, but it’s only in that semi-sleep state where anything could be real that he realises the voice he keeps hearing in his head is shared by the Argentine. 

He’s forgotten this by the time he wakes up the next morning.

*

Life sucks, Leo decides late on Friday evening when he’s back in his house and very much alone. It’s awful in a million and one different ways, and he knows there are so many people who have it so much worse than he does.

But it’s late, he’s alone, and he thinks he might have screwed the world up with one night of wishful thinking. He has no idea how to explain what’s happening apart from that.

Something has happened, and it centres on David. Because he’s changed – it shouldn’t be possible, but he’s gone back six years to before they met. Not only that, but his whole life has changed - apparently he’s played for New York FC since he was nineteen and was rescued from a failing non-league side in his native Asturias. Leo’s using Wikipedia for his information now because maybe it’s inaccurate, but it seems to know more than he does in regards to the mystery that is David Villa (everything about that sentence is wrong; he used to know David inside and out. Now he isn't even sure what team he supports).

There’s no mention of Barcelona or Valencia or even Atlético _anywhere_ in relation to the striker, but somehow he still got regular call-ups to the national team. Even in some weird, fucked-up parallel universe, David is still a Spanish hero. Some things would never change. 

The thing that’s bothering him is that he can trace where everything was going right (but not really), and where everything started to go wrong (but maybe a little bit right) to exactly the same point; _that_ argument on _that_ stormy night. Where Leo had fallen asleep as lightning flashed outside, hoping for some tiny chance of things going back to the way they were.

And apparently the universe had heard him, loud and clear. Because David was right in front of him once again, exactly the same way as before. But only Leo still has three years’ worth of memories of magic and another three of trying too hard and being shot down – there are six years of his life which everyone else may as well have forgotten (although Cristiano surely won’t have, he thinks with grim satisfaction; five Ballon D’Or’s would make anyone envious).

His words have been twisted too precisely, and he has exactly what he wanted. Maybe this is worse than stupid bickering and the love slowly stewing to resentment though, because he’d seen the look in David’s eyes earlier when he’d seen Leo hovering over him protectively (even after all this time, he couldn’t help it). Disgust. Confusion. _Rejection._

What more needs to be said?

*

(“Honestly, Leo, all you have to do to make friends is play football with someone for five minutes.” David playfully ruffles his hair, and he pushes his hand away in annoyance. “You speak louder with a ball than you do with words. Nobody could hate you after seeing first-hand what you can do.”)


	7. Just Like Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I should be revising, but I aced my drama exam so celebration time. Also, what the hell is going on with Sergio Ramos' hair? I'm still crying with laughter.

David is so pumped, he could be a football. (God, did he just think that? He’s spent too much time around Geri recently.) But the point stands; it’s been two weeks since his presentation, and he’s been promised playing time today. He’s practically vibrating.

It’s half-time at the Camp Nou and in the locker room (his _home_ locker room, he reminds himself) are global superstars, symbols of Spain, Argentina, Brazil and more, gathered together. And David really feels like he could belong here; maybe he already does. He knows he can play brilliantly, light up the pitch like a firecracker if he tries. He has a feeling that he could be one of the best – maybe it’s just excitement, but he has an odd feeling that his name should be chanted by the fans like a legend. It must be excitement, because it’s the strangest sensation. There’s no way he’d know that, and he’s never been arrogant.

He’s barely even listening to Lucho talk (“Villa, you’ll come on for Suarez straight after half-time.” was all he had heard before getting distracted.) His gaze is flying around the locker room without landing on anything, picturing the angle he’d touch the ball to break the deadlock, exactly where it would land for Lionel to score and put them ahead… It’s unconscious the way that even his football revolves around the other man.

He doesn’t even realise when his gaze stops on the Argentine, doesn’t notice the way his mouth automatically curves to a smile. He _does_ notice when said Argentine jerks as though someone’s pinched him and immediately finds David’s eyes in the huddle on instinct, returning his smile with that sad gaze still lingering in his eyes like it has been for weeks. 

David had fitted in perfectly with the team like it’s exactly where he belongs, pulling pranks with Geri and scoring goal after goal in training, but there was still something standing between him and Lionel. He doesn’t understand it; they get along fine, joke around and laugh like teammates do. (Lionel might even be his favourite.) He can’t help feeling drawn to the other man.

But there’s still something bothering him a little. (Ok, a lot.) Whenever they touch, even if just for a celebration high-five, tendrils of pain crawl up his arms and down his back. A week after he’d arrived they’d celebrated a fantastic training goal with a spontaneous hug; sleeping had been agony for days afterwards. (He wasn’t entirely sure if that was enough to make him regret it.) It’s unexplainable and he definitely isn’t imaging it – Leo responded in exactly the same way. He hates it, hates that he can’t properly connect with the other man for reasons he can’t define, despises the way that his body is rebelling and punishing him for something he doesn’t understand. And he must be imaging the looks that he sometimes gets – like Lionel wants him to be something else, something _more_ -

Honestly, he must be missing something here. He quickly looks away, fixing his scowl back in place. Focus. That’s what he needs. He needs to be on top of his game if he wants to earn a regular spot in this team. This is the toughest position on the planet for a striker, attempting to displace one of the deadly MSN. He knows he was bought as a back-up, to allow for rotation and emergencies and development, but he wants to be more than a substitute; he wants to be a _hero_.

And he gets his chance as half-time finishes, and the team begins to filter back out onto the field. He adjusts the elastic of his shorts and spikes up his hair before he leaves the locker room, ignoring the exasperated sigh from Neymar (he can’t help it if he’s hot, and Ney is hardly one to talk), before stepping into the tunnel. The Camp Nou opens up around him, the stadium floodlights casting harsh shadows across everything, exposing every inch of every surface, and he almost jumps as a quiet (but not unwelcome) voice speaks from next to him.

“Nervous?” Lionel looks at him inquiringly, and he thinks for a moment. Is he nervous? It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might be nervous, because honestly, no. He could never be nervous here.

He feels like he’s coming home.

*

Leo looks at David (his teammate again – the words still seem unfamiliar in his mind) as he continues up the tunnel with a spring in his step and wonders. He wonders again how this can be possible. The sight is painfully familiar; it still feels like yesterday. He’s walked this tunnel for three years without David now and it’s gradually become part of a normal (albeit unwanted) routine, but apparently five minutes is enough to forget millions because he feels 25 again, still young but a star in a binary system – before the other imploded to a black hole. 

He shakes his head with a derisive smile; he’s turning into a crappy philosopher in his old age. He follows his teammates before they try and kick off without him. The crowd would stop them, but he wouldn’t put it past Geri to try. He knows what he means to the fans, even if he believes it’s unmerited. It’s impossible to escape from the posters of himself everywhere, impossible to escape from the person he’s become. Some of them treat him like an idol, and he’s really not. He’s just a tiny kid from Argentina who hates to talk and loves to kick a ball.

He silences his mind and takes his place on the center spot across from David, who’s watching the ball with anticipation. He knows Ney is behind him, and he would feel guilty for ignoring him usually. He’s willing to make an exception for David though (hasn’t that always been the way?)

They make brief eye contact, and warmth spreads in his ribs. Something clicks back into place. The whistle blows and away they go, back into the rhythm, just like perfect clockwork.

Or… that’s how it should go. But it very quickly becomes clear that the two of them haven’t played together for far too long. Leo is used to the way David was playing after three years in Barcelona – they say playing for Barcelona is like playing a different sport – but this David hasn’t had that experience. He’s still too loose and undefined with his passes, and Leo can see the frustration growing on everyone’s faces, knows it’s appearing on his own despite his efforts to keep it away. Ney makes pass after pass through the middle and no one is ever on the end because Leo is trying to cover David, make space so the other two can take the spotlight today while still making chances (that’s what he does best, after all).

Eibar begin to break away, taking more chances as more are wasted, and Leo sees Geri’s face twist in worried anticipation. Masche clears another ball back up the pitch, and somebody is screaming at him to get his act together. He isn’t sure who (maybe it’s his own mind), but he knows he can’t sit back anymore, _he_ has to push to make the difference.

And he does, three minutes and thirty seven seconds later (he’s counting, always counting to his moment). Andrés makes a forward pass out of nowhere like only he can, somehow slotting the ball between two opposition players so it reaches exactly the place that only Leo thought he knew he would run to.

Less than a touch, a gust of air from his right boot to guide the ball to his left, and what comes next is instinct, dodging and weaving through defenders and teammates alike like air, _lighter than air_ , and his final touch could be divine (it’s arrogant to think it’s better, but he does anyway) as the ball sails from the edge of the penalty area to the top corner. This is what he lives for. 

His teammates are drawn to him like moths to a flame, the brightest spark on the pitch, and David is there first (just like before, he wistfully thinks), grinning and yelling but holding back from touching. Leo misses him even though he’s there, misses feeling the warmth of _his Guaje_ , but touch has become painful for both of them and neither is eager to make it worse. They awkwardly smile as other teammates barge in front to embrace him. He can still see the longing glance over Geri’s shoulder, and he desperately wants to take it away. But he can’t. So he focuses on Ney’s idolising grin instead, Andres’ quiet appreciation, Javi’s knowing grin from the back, Geri’s too-loud singing.

He always loves scoring, if not for the goal itself but the pure mindless joy it brings his teammates afterwards. Football lets him become the best version of himself, freed from distractions and obligations, and scoring is the epitome of this feeling. But this goal wasn’t just a statistic, it was beautiful as well, and he feels ridiculously proud of it, knows they’ll be talking about it for days afterwards – 

There’s something missing though. Because he catches David’s eye after everyone’s returned to their positions, after Geri’s messed up his hair, after he’s thanked his grandmother for yet another goal. 

And he knows, just from a familiar-but-not glance, that the other man isn’t happy with himself. Leo checks the massive clock above the goal stand. Twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes to make this the perfect match. 

He loves a challenge.

The match takes on a more familiar rhythm as Barcelona grow in confidence again, Sergio and Andrés keeping the ball between them in the middle of the pitch to wind down the clock. But this is David’s first game back (or just his first game to everyone else) at Barcelona, and Leo wants to make sure he remembers it for all the right reasons.

He drops back and motions to Sergio. The midfielder knows what he wants, and the ball spins towards him where he’s evaded his marker, and he takes it and dribbles down the right wing. There’s an instinct to cut in to the centre, to let his feet take control, but this goal isn’t for him. 

He looks up for the briefest heartbeat and he locks eyes with David for less than a second– who has moved to exactly where Leo wants him. He sees David and _knows_ that he understands what Leo wants.

He kicks the ball with his laces, sending it floating over defenders and into the crowded box. There’s just one touch and the net shakes from the contact in a goal that's more bone-deep satisfying than the first. Leo doesn’t need to see the ball to know it’s gone in, just like he didn’t need to look as he curled the ball to know that David was in the right place.

This time, he’s the first to congratulate David, even if it’s without words. They lock eyes and Leo feels a painfully happy shiver go down his spine. _‘That’s more like it,’_ he thinks in relief as the team surrounds David. 

The match finishes with three pure whistle blasts and exhaustion begins to creep through his veins, taking the place of the adrenaline. He loves matches like these, where he knows he’s run his heart out, where he’s been able to prove that he’s the best that everyone says he is.

Looking around at his teammates, he knows they feel the same. Geri has his massive grin back and his arm slung around Ney’s shoulders. Luis runs over to the two of them and congratulates them both from the bench. Andrés is speaking quietly to the captain of Eibar, a smile on both their faces. They occasionally glance over to him. Ivan and Sergio are chatting and joking around as they begin to make their way back to the tunnel, and Claudio, Jordi and Masche follow them quietly, smiles still on their faces. 

They all pass him as they walk back in and slap him on the back, beam at him and congratulate him again on his goal. But Leo’s only half paying attention as he stares at David. The Asturian is staring wonderingly around at the stands as the fans begin to leave, awe and happiness on his face. There’s something in his eyes that makes Leo pause; he can’t place it, but the look on his face is reminding Leo too strongly of the way they used to be. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching, and Leo wants to hold onto this forever. For a moment, he can kid himself that nothing’s changed as the two of them stand together on the same pitch once more. Something shifts in his chest and he has to look away. The memories are beginning to hurt again.

That’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? Leo has six years’ worth of memories of the two of them, goods and bads, highs and lows, and nobody to share them with. Nobody else remembers - David doesn’t even _know_ him anymore, and he’s stuck with his own mind for notoriously bad company. He already hates talking about his problems with anyone and there is no one on Earth who would even pretend to understand _this_. 

In a stadium of ninety thousand people, Leo has never felt so alone. 

*

(The match whistle blows, and his hopes die. There’s a brief struggle to keep the tears back – he wins, like always – but then a warm arm is wrapped around his neck. Leo looks up at David and the older man smiles sadly back. The gesture is subtle, less than both of them want, but Leo loves knowing that there’s always one person he can tell anything. That there’s one person who would understand everything.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Leo, I didn't even realise how angsty I'd made him until I reread the last sentence of his pov lol.


	8. Wipeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Guaje...

David groans as his alarm blares in his new house. He smacks at his bedside table blindly before finally finding the offender and throwing it. 

It doesn’t break, but something happens; the alarm changes to loud flamenco and the volume raises. He jams his fingers in his ears, but can’t block out the sound.

“Fuck! Fucking clocks, fucking alcohol, fucking everything...” David curses as he throws the duvet off himself. The blood on his pillow has stopped alarming him these days, but he’s still worried on this particular morning. Especially since there’s still blood dripping from his nose. That is _definitely_ new; the nosebleeds usually only happen while he sleeps. 

He walks to his new kitchen and tilts his head back slowly with paper clamped over his nose. Too slow and he ruins another shirt. Too fast and he might fall over from dizziness. It scares him a little how routine this is becoming. He tries not to move too much; his head is still pounding, but at least he sort of has a reason this time. That’s a good thing, right?

He must have drunk way too much last night, but there had to be a celebration right? A Barcelona debut was pretty important shit, a goal even more so. It was a shame Lionel hadn’t been able to come, he had been the true hero. David knows if he turned on the news right now, Lionel Messi would be front and center. His phone rings somewhere in the house, and he groans again. Where the fuck is it now? 

He loves his new house; it’s classy and gorgeous and not too expansive, just the way he likes it. But he isn’t used to where everything is yet. And right now, it’s a fucking mess. There are bottles all over the worktops, something sticky on the floor, and somebody has written something crude and disgusting over his windows in gel pen – he has a very good idea of who that would be.

Speak of the devil. Except thinking seemed to work equally well for this particular one. 

“Rise and shine, morning glory!” Geri sings as he bounds into the kitchen, sniggering as he reads the words on the window. “That was good artwork, you needed some decoration.”

“I didn’t need a graphic representation of your dick on the window, Gerard. You’re such a bitch.” David groans back. He can tell there’s going to be a lot of groaning already.

“Whatever, I’m going to find Ney.” He dismisses David without a second glance, bouncing away. How the fuck did he have that much energy? And why is he even still in David’s house?

Luis appears around the door a second later, a pained grimace on his face and an answer to his unspoken question on his lips. “We were too drunk to go anywhere else last night, and Claudio’s a dick when he has to stay sober. So we crashed. Sorry.” 

David just nods, still confused, and regrets it straight away, the motion jarring his brain. He moves the tissue over his nose to check if it’s stopped bleeding, and immediately clamps it back down. Too much to hope for. 

Geri explodes back into the room, his arm around Ney’s neck as he drags him with him but releases him immediately when he sees David, face crumpled in concern.

”David, are you alright?”

David must be missing something here. The world isn’t really working this morning.

”Why would I not be alright?” He finally puts together, and Geri stares in disbelief.

“Seriously? You look like shit, and you’re having a nosebleed! I haven’t had one since I was a kid.”

He snorts. “This always happens in the mornings, its fine. Don’t worry your ditzy little head about it.”

Geri’s about to respond, but deflates as Mascherano drags himself into the room. “What always happens in the mornings?” Masche yawns as he steps into the overcrowded kitchen and immediately stops. “What’s wrong with your face, David?”

He groans for the third (or maybe fourth?) time that morning. He’s quickly losing count. “Nothing is wrong with my face! I sometimes get nosebleeds in the morning. That’s it.”

Masche doesn’t look satisfied and walks up to David, holding a hand against his forehead. “You’re running a temperature – you’re way too hot, David. Sit down.” 

David isn’t given a choice; Masche pushes him through to the living room anyway and down onto one of his leather armchairs. He grumbles in annoyance anyway.

“Geri – no, Luis, go get some water.” Masche looks at Geri’s offended face and shrugs. “You’d probably drop it, or get vodka or something stupid instead.”

Geri tilts his head in agreement, and Masche turns back to David. 

“Do I need to call a doctor? How often do you get nosebleeds?”

He rolls his eyes. “When I wake up sometimes. And no, I’ve already seen a doctor. They couldn’t tell me what’s wrong, so it’s probably nothing.”

“Maybe it’s related to Leo!” Ney pipes up from the corner. David looks up at the name in sudden realisation, a lightning connection finally being made in his brain. How did he not see that before? No. It couldn’t be…

Geri sniggers. “Everything’s related to Leo when you’re concerned Ney.”

Neymar blushes but carries on. “No, I mean, you know he throws up on the pitch sometimes? Nobody could find a reason for that either. Maybe it’s the same thing.”

David isn’t listening though; Andrés begins to explain something about stress and pressure to Neymar in a patronising tone as David gets up and walks out of the room, ignoring Masche’s protests. He needs to find his phone.

It’s buried under a pile of clothes in his room, a missed call flashing on the screen. He ignores it, opening up his messages. He scrolls down to ‘L’, heart pounding in his chest. He rereads all of the mysterious messages twice and they suddenly seem to take on a whole new meaning.

He types out a new message with shaking fingers; he has to know. 

_**To: leo**  
Leo? As in Leo MESSI?_

He slumps on his bed and stares at his phone desperately (for what, he’s not sure). He has a horrible feeling about this, but he needs confirmation before he lets his imagination run away. Because some of those texts were quite personal, they suggested friendship and maybe something more – why the fuck would Lionel be sending texts like that to David, when David didn’t even know him? Unless…

His phone pings again as his door crashes open again and Geri announces his appearance, worry screaming from his posture, Masche right behind him. He glances at the screen.

_**From: leo**  
That one took you a while didn’t it?_

The words echo in the caverns of empty space in his mind in a voice he’s known for only weeks but also years, a voice which desperately searches to find the parts it should fit and just finds empty space instead, intensifying to a scream.

The phone slips from his grip, but he doesn’t care. Somebody’s saying something but it’s not making sense, only jumbled sounds reaching his consciousness. Maybe they’re speaking Catalan, maybe Spanish, he doesn’t know anymore, he doesn’t know _anything_ anymore.

Why does Lionel have his phone number? Why was he texting him like they knew each other, like they meant something to each other, because he is _certain_ they’d never met before. He’d remember someone like Lionel Messi, he’s sure of it. But then why-

Why had his name been set as ‘pulga x’? That meant David had known Leo as well, liked him even and that’s quite a big thing for him. He’d given him a fucking nickname for god’s sake! David _never_ did nicknames. He can’t think properly over the _thud, thud, thud_ pounding through his head, can’t fully grasp the implications. 

Or _had_ they met before? They couldn’t have, but… there’s something trying to get through, something threatening to burst in the back of his skull, and the scream isn’t just in his head anymore as his sore throat gives it life, his mind is in _agony_ -

He’s never been so relieved to black out. 

*

Leo’s been up for two hours when his phone rings next to him. He’s slumped on his sofa playing FIFA and feeling sorry for himself. He’d turned down the party last night despite loud protests from all quarters (and a longing look from David which he knew the other man didn’t understand). It had been for the best, he’d decided. The important matches of the season were coming up soon and he needed to be on his A-game. There was no time for getting drunk and stupid. (The fact it had been David’s house had absolutely _nothing_ to do with it.)

The only thing that had happened since the game last night had been that text… He couldn’t deny that he’d been excited. Maybe David was remembering, but it was much more likely that his brain had made a random guess. And besides, he’d heard nothing else since. David was probably freaked out – he would be mortified personally. He knows he is right now. Some of their exchanges were… more than personal.

He sighs and pauses his game, a mini version of himself frozen with the ball. The 6-0 score line flashes back at him and he reluctantly grins. Ramos’ look of disappointed disgust at another conceded goal was almost better on the game than in real life. _Almost_.

Andrés’ avatar blinks at him from his phone, and he presses accept.

“Hola?”

“Leo, come to the hospital. David is… he’s woken up now.”

Wait, David’s in hospital? When had this happened? Leo couldn’t rein in the immediate panic that flashed across his mind. Why had no one told him? And he was asking for Leo; what possible reason could there be for that? They’re friends, nothing more. At least not to David. So there’s no logical reason for him to be asking for him. Hope is too dangerous to afford right now.

“What happened?” He rushes out, leaving the TV on as he pulls his shoes on and races out of his house.

“I’ll explain when you get here. Just, don’t be too long? He’s pretty stressed.”

Leo doesn’t need telling twice.

He goes through at least two red lights but for once he doesn’t care. He runs into the hospital reception and doesn’t even manage a full sentence.

“Where’s Villa?” Is all he manages, but the young man at reception smiles at him understandingly.

“Fifth floor, room 710. The rest of your team’s already there.” 

Leo doesn’t stay to listen to more, just appreciates briefly the advantages of being well-known. He doesn’t bother with the elevator, running straight for the stairs. It takes too long but not long enough, and he’s sweating when he finally sees his teammates gathered awkwardly in the corridor outside the room. 

Andrés is the first to see him (as usual), and waves with a grim smile. 

“Leo.”

“What happened?” He demands. He isn’t rude usually, but David is a different matter. 

“He was having a nosebleed, and then he screamed and passed out. The guys,” Andrés motioned to the team behind him, “couldn’t wake him. The doctors are still trying to work out what happened, but he woke up about twenty minutes ago. He’s been asking for you since.”

Leo’s heard enough. He marches straight up to the door and barges in. Inside David is lying, propped up in a hospital bed. He’s pale – too pale. But there’s a wonderfully familiar glower on his face again as two nurses fuss around him. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, and his eyes meet Leo’s.

Immediately his face relaxes, before tensing up again as he realises.

“Can you leave us alone for a moment?” He asks the nurses without looking away from Leo, and he can’t help but notice the fists clenched in pain and the tiny specks of dried blood around his nose. A surge of protectiveness floods his system – he’d do anything to make David ok. 

One of the nurses shakes her head. “Sorry, Señor Villa, we have instructions to monitor you carefully.”

That wasn’t acceptable for Leo. “If anything happens, I’ll call immediately. I want him to get better more than you do.” It’s not a lie. He tries to look convincing rather than just pathetic. 

She sighs, and motions to the other nurse. “Five minutes.” She warns as they both leave the room, and she gives him a tired smile as the door closes. Leo lets his gaze fall back on David in relief, and he moves to the chair next to his bed. 

David looks back, his tired pain becoming a lot more visible in the absence of other people. Leo’s heart pangs painfully. 

“I guess you heard what happened.” He states flatly. 

Leo nods slowly. “Yeah, and that you wanted to see me.”

“Well, yes. I do.” David takes a deep breath and looks away, and Leo feels his worry thicken. Has he done something to hurt David? 

“What am I to you?” He finally asks. Leo looks at him in shock. He has an idea of what he’s getting at, but he plays dumb anyway. There’s no way he could mean that.

“A new teammate who has a lot of potential. Potentially a very good friend.” He answers, ignoring the part of his brain which wants the truth. This gave them both a way out if necessary. At this stage, they couldn’t be more. 

“No, I mean… what am I to you? Fuck, I don’t know how to say this.” He groans and puts a hand over his eyes. “Ney said something, and my brain did something – something which links back to you. I don’t know, I’m just sick of everything hurting. I have this… stupid idea, and I don’t want to freak you out, but it’s like we should be something more. I mean – I don’t _want_ that, but I don’t understand anymore. The way you look at me sometimes, we can’t even touch… What _are_ we?” He looks at Leo in desperation, and Leo feels his heart skip a beat. No. This is not happening. This is too much to hope for.

But on the pitch he’s the one to make things happen; he has to try to make this work as well. So before he can let himself back out, he opens his mouth and lets the words he’s bottled up spill out. He explains everything he thinks he knows. He tells him how they used to be; how David had arrived at Barcelona exactly the same way six years ago. How they’d had an instant connection on the pitch – and off of it. How it had taken them three months to sort themselves out, but it had been so, _so_ worth it. How David had been the love of his life, and how he’d broken his heart when he’d gone. And then how everything had just gone in a flash of lightning like it was nothing – how they’d come to where they are today. Leo alone in his memories, David in inexplicable pain, the rest of the world in peaceful ignorance. 

David just stares at him wide-eyed throughout everything he says. Eventually he stops talking, voice and heart tired and David keeps staring. Leo looks back, pleading him silently to understand, to _remember_ , because he’s tired of doing this on his own, and he swears that David will agree when he finally opens his mouth to speak -

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Someone just stepped on his heart, crushed his lungs. Leo’s finding it hard to breathe because he’d thought – foolishly, so stupid, stupid, _stupid_ – that David hearing about the six years (which were everything before they were nothing) would bring him back. That maybe putting his feelings in the air would change the world, that saying his thoughts aloud would make everything ok. He’s never been so blatantly wrong.

There’s really nothing left.

*

(“Are you crazy?” David laughed in disbelief. “We can’t, Leo!” Leo smiled back at him nervously. “Why not, Guaje? We’re amazing on the pitch together, and we could be amazing together off it as well.” David stops laughing, but keeps smiling that patronising, indulgent smile. “You’re insane.” Leo smiled sadly, his heart dropping to his feet. What had he really been expecting?

“But I love that you are. Why not?” Leo could have kissed him at that moment – and he did. And it didn’t need to feel magical, or earth-shattering, or soul-ascending like they always seem to in books and movies. It felt like somebody put a new filter on Leo’s world, and the colours are twice as bright and beautiful. It just feels _right_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And really sorry, Leo :/


	9. Pandora's Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly early update, because BARCELONA ARE THE CHAMPIONS! :D They deserve the league, I love my boys <3
> 
> Apologies because not a lot actually happens in this chapter, it's desperately long but sets up some stuff for next chapter, so... lots more angsting though! That's all they seem to do ;)

When Leo enters David’s hospital room, he feels fresh air breathing through his lungs. It’s wonderful and refreshing, like the appearance of the other man gets his heart pumping properly again. He’s breathing easily for the first time since he passed out, and that worries him in itself, let alone the constant fainting. He’s just tired of being like this now.

He’s tired of being weak and losing minutes of his life every day to the blackness. Tired of having to buy so many new pillowcases from the blood, tired of apologising to his maid every time he doesn’t quite make it to the bathroom when his meals make a reappearance.

David loves Barcelona so much, the city, his new teammates and the fans, the colours of the blaugrana and being back in his home country. He’d never trade it back for New York, not for the world. But he’s so tired - of throwing up, of not understanding his mind, of feeling like he’s dying. He’s so tired of living these days. He’d never seriously contemplate ending everything, but being awake is becoming such an effort. And he feels like death incarnate half the time anyway. Wouldn’t a rest be so wonderful?

But Leo enters his hospital room and brings him back to himself. He forgets he’s tired, forgets he’s miserable, even forgets about the fainting for the briefest second. He looks awkward but determined in the white light, and David relaxes at the sight of him. It seems natural for Leo to be there. The world stops swirling so sickeningly around him. He’s too tired to question why.

But then the nurses leave, and they finally talk properly. And he stops relaxing, because every word which the Argentine says makes less sense than the one which came before. The world begins to whirl again and he feels dizzy. He can’t look away from Leo’s desperate face, hoping if he stares hard enough it will anchor him, but he’s not taking in any of the words properly. What he’s saying… It’s strangely familiar but it doesn’t belong to him. This story isn’t a part of him, it’s an old book from the library, an old movie he watched when he was a child. A nice story, he’ll admit, but there’s no way it’s anything but that. A fairy tale for children. It’s certainly not his fairy tale. Because David had moved to the kingdom, but this is no happy ever after.

He feels bad for Leo as well, because he can tell he means what he’s saying, believes it with all his heart. But he’s wrong. He must be. 

Because David knows he would remember _six years_ of his life. (Especially if he’d spent three of them with someone like Leo, although he quickly abandons the thought.) He would remember playing for a club like Barcelona, even if it does feel strangely like home. 

And he tells Leo this, albeit in less words; “Are you fucking crazy?” He doesn’t mean it to sound so brutal, but he’s had enough today. Someone had had a party in his head, smashed all the windows and ran out before he could call the police, and he is not in the mood to be fucked around right now. All he wants is a half-decent explanation for the text messages. Why couldn’t he just say they were a joke so they could go back to normal? (Whatever the fuck passed for normal these days anyway.)

But Leo stares back at him, crushed. Like David’s stamped over his dreams and spat on the remains, and how the fuck is that fair? David’s the one who’s been fainting and bleeding and stressing about potentially dying, so why is he being treated like the villain here?

“David, please.” Leo’s pleading now, and why does he have the ability to make David feel like he could change the world just by saying yes? He hates it, hates that a part of him wants to as well.

“What do you want from me?” He snaps instead, angry at the way the other man is manipulating his feelings, angry about a lot of things he almost remembers but doesn’t understand anymore. "I don’t remember any of that, Leo. I’m not the person you think I am. Your story is fucking ridiculous.”

Something changes in Lionel’s face beyond the crushing misery; it’s subtle, so subtle that David is surprised he even notices. It’s the beginnings of denial, but the complete opposite as well. He realises with a jolt that Leo’s prepared to deny what he believes, what _he_ knows to be true, for David’s sake. He’s not sure if the feeling of sickness is from the uncomfortable recognition that he has that kind of control over Leo, or the lingering nausea that follows him like a cloud these days. 

He presses the button for the nurses, closes his eyes and slows his breathing. He hates the smell of vomit. He seems to hate a lot of things.

When he looks again, the nurse is smiling at him sympathetically with a bucket. Leo is long gone.

David doesn’t sleep that night. They refuse to release him with an undiagnosed condition, but he’s almost glad. 

He keeps turning the words over and over in his mind, the way Leo had looked so determined and desperate to get them out, how deeply he believed everything he said. David wants to just dismiss the story; he doesn’t like the idea of having been so close to Leo for so long, when he’s known him for only a matter of weeks. 

But he can’t just dismiss it, can he? Because somehow, everything slotted into place in the most ridiculous jigsaw he’s ever seen. It would certainly explain the strange text messages, why they were labelled the way they were and why they sounded the way they did. And it would go a long way to explain the strange, longing glances that Leo’s been giving him. As well as why he was playing for New York, considering he’s Spanish and apparently good enough to be one of the top Spanish goal scorers of all time.

He hates that it seems to fit with the pieces he already has, because he doesn’t want it to. He wants to just be David Villa. He wants to conquer the world, not to already have done it but forgotten. He doesn’t want to have broken Lionel Messi’s heart, because he really likes Leo, even if it’s not in the way Leo wants him to. He doesn’t want to be fucked up and broken, and a freak of nature. 

He takes comfort in the idea that it just sounds so impossible to begin with that he can almost ignore it. And he decides that that is exactly what he’s going to do. He _has_ to ignore it. What else is he supposed to do with knowing something like that?

*

_Thud. Swish._

_Thud. Swish._

_Thud. Bang!_

Leo finally looks up at the harsh sound. The ball bounces away from the crossbar to roll to a step a couple of meters away from the netting, where nine identical balls sit unmoving. 

Nine out of ten isn’t enough. Not good enough. 

Everyone else had left training hours ago. Claudio had stayed for a while, acting as though he wanted some practice with saves. Leo was grateful, especially for the way he almost managed to keep his worry hidden. They’d trained in silence, free kick after penalty after free kick. Claudio saved a lot; Leo missed a lot. He really had to work on his penalties. But even the goalkeeper had had to leave eventually; he’d promised his wife a romantic evening. Leo had thanked him for his time anyway; he knew Claudio had stayed so long to make sure he wasn’t alone.

He sighs and goes to retrieve the balls. He could get another bag out, but he’d just have to put them away. Besides, the walking gives him a good chance to stretch his muscles out so they don’t cramp. Unfortunately, it gives him a break from football as well. Which means time to think. 

He’s been trying not to recently, because there’s always one person who commands his thoughts. He’d been released from hospital a couple of days ago with no more explanation for his illness than a mild case of stress. 

(“I told them there was no reason.” He’d snorted at the first training session back. Leo hadn’t said anything and let Luis do the talking instead. Everybody else had been relieved to see David back.)

But he’s still worried. Because even if David isn’t who he thought anymore, he’s still a brilliant teammate. And there’s obviously something wrong with him. He hadn’t noticed before, but Leo’s been looking a lot more closely since they’d … spoken. And he honestly hadn’t noticed the paleness, the way sometimes David’s eyes lose focus and he sways on the spot. He can’t believe he didn’t notice how David wasn’t really coping at all after he’d been coping so well in training. He’s so angry with himself. He needs to do better.

He throws two of the balls back towards the middle of the training pitch and kicks back seven more, dribbling the last one absent-mindedly.

The sun is beginning to set, but he keeps going. If he closes his eyes and focuses, when he reopens them he’s surrounded by defenders, and he lets instinct take over. The ball is closer to him than his mind, the ball belongs to him and no one else; his feet do the talking and he looks up to make sure David’s ready for his pass, because he can see the volley- 

He stops, the ball rolling away. Because there’s no one else there. 

He packs the balls away in silence and locks the training pitch when he leaves, the sky a deep purple above him. He goes home and tries not to let the crushing silence of his house consume him – he usually enjoys being alone, but not tonight.

It’s almost ten in the evening when someone bangs on his front door. Well, two people. And a stupid giant. He questions again why he’s friends with Geri as he ruffles his hair upon opening the door. (And immediately remembers as he’s dragged into a suffocating bear-hug. Nobody is as comforting as Geri can be. There’s a reason they are still best friends after fifteen years.)

Masche and Luis follow him, less intrusive but with grim smiles. Leo shuts the door after them, confused.

“So, Leo. We’re worried.” Geri states without preamble.

Leo stares at him, unimpressed. He’s not ready for this. Not right now. “You should be worried, that beard probably has some form of life living in it. Have you let them inspect it for scientific research yet?”

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious. We’re worried about you, Leo.” Geri said, lowering his voice at the end.

Leo dismisses the words with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine. Nothing’s changed.” He’s well aware that the two aren’t the same thing.

“David said something similar. Then he fainted.” Masche interrupts.

Leo looks at Masche, surprised. He wasn’t expecting David to come up. But his friend stares back challengingly, and Leo sighs. This wouldn’t just go away, these three were stubbornness personified. He moves towards his living room. If they’re going to talk, he may as well be comfortable. Honestly, he should have seen this coming sooner or later. He takes a seat on the sofa and stares at the opposite wall.

“Why are you worried?” He asks monotonously. Maybe they’ll get fed up and go away. 

There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds, before:

“You haven’t seemed the same these last few weeks.” Luis speaks up at last, still standing. “You’ve been distracted when we speak to you.”

“And working hours after everyone else leaves training. You’re not even like this for Argentina.” Masche says, taking a seat on his left.

“Skipping out on the parties?” Geri sprays crumbs everywhere as he speaks, and Leo glares at him in disgust. He didn’t even have any food in at the moment, did he seriously bring a sandwich _with_ him? He’d just cleaned. “But to be fair, you always used to do that.”

“Guys, seriously, I’m-“

“And it’s all since David came to Barcelona.” Geri concludes, steamrolling through Leo’s objections and he freezes. Masche and Luis must both have noticed his sudden silence, but he doesn’t care. Has he really been that obvious? 

“Leo, just let us help. What’s going on?” Luis asks quietly, a warm hand on his shoulder from next to him. Leo wishes he could accept the help, he wants to relate to someone so badly; but he can’t. There’s no way any of these three will get it; if David reacted the way he did and he was directly involved, how could anyone else begin to understand?

He doesn’t look up from the floor. “Just stress, I think. I’m getting too old, I’m not as good as I was.” It’s only half a lie. He makes sure not to look at any of them though in case they see something. Masche and Geri have known him for far too long, and Luis is learning to pick up his signals very quickly. He knows that too much comes through in his eyes, and he doesn’t want them to suspect anything to do with David.

“Bullshit.” Geri states, before Masche whacks his arm.

“Leo,” he replies, “you don’t have to lie to us. We’re your friends.”

Leo stares at him. He would love to tell them what’s going on, but he has to lie. Because they are his friends but they _won’t understand_ , and he doesn’t think he can deal with being shot down again. He must have been mistaken anyway. 

“Is something wrong between you and David?” Luis presses and suddenly he feels claustrophobic. In his own house, on his own sofa. Why can’t everyone leave him alone? The world would be so much easier if it shrunk to the size of Leo and a football pitch. And maybe the old David. Just the two of them and a ball, forever…

“No, we’re fine. Awesome, actually. I’m just tired. I was about to go to bed before you got here.” He responds sharply, hoping they get the hint. He just wants to be alone with his memories. When it’s just him, he can pretend that they aren’t just memories anymore. He loves living in the past, when he hadn’t seen so many friends come and go. When he hadn’t seen David come and go as if he was just one of the crowd. (He was always so much more, from the second he walked through the door.)

He doesn’t know why he was hoping with Geri here though. There’s no point trying to be subtle with the defender.

“Leo, we won’t leave until we know what’s going on. We care about you.” Geri says with a smile, and Leo feels briefly warmed by the words, even if they’re the opposite of what he wants to hear. And he still can’t tell them. So how can he make them go away?

“Well,” He says, his mind whirling, “I, uh…”

“It is David, isn’t it?” Luis asks quietly, hand still trying to be reassuring on his shoulder. 

Leo shakes his head emphatically. Whatever this situation is, it is _not_ David’s fault. It’s Leo’s fault – he’d made a stupid wish and now David’s hurting (he’s not sure when he connected the two, but it would make sense), and Leo had gone and made it even more awkward. No, there’s just too much for Leo to handle. With David, and his lurking self-doubt, and El Clasicó just around the corner – 

Bingo.

“It’s just, the Clasicó coming up so soon.” He forces a smile. He has to act better than he has been if they want him to believe him.

Geri snorts in disbelief, and Masche shoots him a warning glare before turning back to Leo.

“But you’ve played loads of matches against Real Madrid.” Masche frowns at him, unconvinced.

“Is it Ramos? Or Pepe?” Luis looks at him concerned. “Have they been threatening you?” 

Leo honestly wants to laugh. Ramos is a pretty decent guy off the pitch (even if he’s a total dick on it), and Pepe stopped scaring him _long_ ago. But he’s been given an excuse now. And a little healthy competition never hurt anyone, did it?

He nods his head and tries to look scared. “I’ve been getting text messages. They threatened to…” He swallows heavily and doesn’t finish the sentence. Let them fill in the gaps themselves. He ducks his head down again, and does a mental fist bump when he hears Geri’s breathing get angrier.

“Little punks, who the fuck do they think they are?” He rages, beginning to pace. Masche and Luis sit next to him, not interrupting. Leo knows they feel the same. “I’m going to text Cris. If they so much as fucking _touch_ you…”

He’s honestly touched by how protective they all are when they really have no reason to be. He silently sends an apology to Madrid’s defenders. The match would be interesting at least. At least David is safe from his friends’ rage… 

Geri vanishes through the lounge door, but Leo still hears him as he storms through the house.

“Anything you break, you pay for!” He yells after him, smiling slightly. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to remind him.

A hand on his forearm reminds him of his other two guests though, and Masche gives him a sad smile.

“Honestly, though, Leo, if anything’s bothering you, you can tell us. You know that, right?”

Leo almost snaps. In Geri’s absence, the room seems bigger and easier to breathe. He loves the defender – he’s one of his oldest friends – but he can easily be overwhelming. He always feels protected with Geri, but sometimes it toes the line of suffocation. With just Masche and Luis, he feels he could speak - and they would listen. 

What the hell. He’s already jumped over the cliff. The worst they can do is reject him as well. And if they do, he’ll just accept he’s wrong. He’ll make himself. It _could_ have been a dream for all he knows. (But what’s to say this isn’t the dream? He just wants to know how to wake up.)

“Can you stay? After Geri’s gone?” He whispers, not sure his throat will let him get all the words out but scared he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t.

The two glance at each other in surprise, and he thinks for a moment they might refuse.

“Of course, Leo.” Luis replies, not asking any more questions. 

Leo manages a wobbly smile and takes a deep breath. _Maybe the second time would be the charm?_

*

(“David! Oh fuck- David! Can you hear me?” Leo goes into full-blown panic mode as soon as David falls and doesn’t get up. David always gets up. He certainly doesn’t lie on the ground, writhing in pain, face screwed up.

His teammates square up to the offending defender, shout and scream at the referee, but Leo ignores them all. He’s good at blocking out people. He kneels next to David who’s in agony, and why isn’t anyone else seeing the real problem here?

Leo doesn’t know where to put his hands, where the injury is, so he strokes David’s cheek with shaking fingers instead, brushing his hair away from his damp forehead.

His eyes blink open momentarily and their eyes lock.

“It hurts, Leo,” He pants, teeth gritted and tears beginning to form.

Leo doesn’t look down at David’s leg, doesn’t look away from his boyfriend’s beautiful eyes.

He swallows; he needs to be calm for David.

“Don’t think about the pain. Focus on one thing, Guaje, it’ll help. Focus on me if you want.” He wants to cry. He smiles instead. It’s how he works, how he keeps going. David can see through it anyway.

“I’m always focused on you, Pulga.” There’s a hint of a smile through the pain, and Leo lets the medics push him out of the way as they put David on a stretcher and take him away. They maintain eye contact until David’s off the pitch, and he misses his presence the instant it’s broken.

The slight upturn to David’s lips is the only thing that gets him through the rest of the Club World Cup.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love hearing what you think! Thanks for reading :)


	10. Scars Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly early update - OLÉ! What a way to end the season. I'm ridiculously proud to be a fan of Barça right now. Geri does not get enough love either - that was the best defensive display I've ever seen. EVER. #hero. I'll stop, because I could rave all night about those boys. (Feel free to rave in the comments, because there is nothing I like talking about more than my team).

The house goes quiet as Geri leaves. 

(“You let me know if they say anything else, ok Leo?” He’d said, still shaking with anger. Leo had nodded and tried not to smile. As if Madrid didn’t have enough reasons to hate the two of them… )

But Leo shuts the door behind the defender and takes a moment to sort himself out. He has to think about how to say this – how to get them to understand something which sounds stupider the more he tries to explain.

He’s already regretting his decision, but Luis and Masche are worried now and he hates making people worry about him. He’s fine. He’s always fine – except he’s not. And he has to do something before it starts to affect his football. Nothing and no one is allowed to interfere with his football.

He walks back into his living room where the two of them are still waiting. Luis smiles reassuringly at him, and he drops into an armchair. 

Masche clears his throat. “What’s really going on, Leo? Why did you ask us to stay?”

He must be crazy, like David said. “It’s… it’s a long story.” He starts, staring at his fingernails. A final offer of a way out.

“We’ve always got time for you, Leo.” Luis replies firmly, and the words are comforting even if they aren’t what Leo wanted. (Even if they actually are.)

‘ _Deep breath, Leo_ ’, his mind reminds him. He stops, before launching straight in. “You remember when I asked for David as a transfer, back before the window?”

They both nod patiently.

“Well, it wasn’t _just_ because I liked his football. David and me, we have… history.”

Masche nods, confused, but Luis grins at him. “Leo, do you have a crush on David? Is that what this is? Because you don’t have to be worried about that, we’ll support you through anything.”

Leo almost laughs at how simple that would make everything. Technically, Luis isn’t wrong. He realises with a sinking heart that he never came out to his teammates. Geri’s the only one who ever found out, but Geri is Geri. Geri is no questions asked, support through anything and everything, knock down anyone who tries to stop them both. But not many people are like Geri.

Because he’s sure that Luis and Masche _would_ support him through anything. But would the rest of the team? Would Lucho? Did David even like men anymore, after the rest of the world was smashed up and pieced badly back together? And god, what if the fans found out? They would turn on him, he’s sure of it. 

“There’s more,” he says instead. Worries for another day. “I’m going to sound insane, but please just listen, ok?”

He doesn’t need to look to see the concern spread across Masche’s face, or the confusion reappear on Luis’. He understands people more than he’s given credit for. He knows how this is going to sound.

“About six years ago, David came to Barcelona.”

“What, for a trial?” Masche asks, eyebrows furrowed.

Leo shakes his head and closes his eyes. “No. He _signed_ for Barcelona. And then played for us for three years. He broke his leg in his second season and went to Atletico, before moving to New York.” He looks up to be met with twin looks of confusion. It’s a little creepy how similar they are.

“Er, Leo…” Luis starts, but Masche pokes his leg before turning back to Leo.

“There’s more, isn’t there.” He states, not really asking. 

Leo looks at him in surprise. They’re actually listening? Even Luis, although he’s looking doubtful, hasn’t dismissed him yet. Spurred on, he continues:

“Yeah. While he was here, we were… close. _Really_ close.” He hopes they can pick up what he’s saying without actually saying it. Because that’s a terrifying prospect, even by the standards of what he’s already told them. “When he left, we split up and I got low. Really low.” He certainly isn’t going to elaborate on that. “And I really wanted him to come back. A couple of months ago, we had some stupid argument though, and the morning after, everything had changed.” He doesn’t look up this time because he can already sense the way the mood in the room has shifted.

“Changed in what way?” Luis asks. Leo can tell he doesn’t really believe him.

He laughs flatly. “David never played in Spain, let alone _Barcelona_ , he’s six years younger and he doesn’t even remember me. Basically every way that matters.”

Silence. He isn’t going to look up. He couldn’t bear the looks on their faces.

He’s surprised beyond belief when Masche simply says, “Ok.”

“What?” His head swings up so fast his neck clicks, but that doesn’t matter – the actual fuck?

“I said, ok. I believe you, Leo.” His compatriot smiles at him reassuringly, and Leo feels dizzy from relief. He’s ok. Maybe he’s not just crazy, maybe he isn’t just dreaming. God knows why, but someone actually thinks he might be telling the truth. He sadly reflects that it’s the wrong person, even if it is something. 

“I’m not so sure. Maybe you were dreaming, Leo? I mean, I have pretty crazy dreams sometimes…” Luis laughs nervously, and Leo’s about to reply that he has no reason for him to listen, no evidence but his memories to go on, but- 

He does. He’d almost forgotten, he hasn’t even checked if it’s still there since the world changed.

He rolls up his left sleeve slowly, wondering if the ink has faded, if the scar has begun to heal, if it even existed in the first place. A small smile begins to grow when the damaged skin reveals itself once more.

He points out the small, white ink tattoo in the crook of his elbow with a triumphant smile. “One training session, David went in for a really bad tackle – we always got put on opposite teams. We were too good together.” He smiles at the memory. “It wasn’t a hard tackle, just really badly positioned. But it scarred afterwards, and he felt terrible. So I got his name tattooed over the scar. To remember how he left his mark. I never got it removed after he left. I always meant to, but…” ‘ _I never could._ ’ The unspoken words hover in the air between the three of them. Maybe they’re starting to grasp what Leo and David had. What David had meant to him.

Both of them stare, stunned at the faint letters traced into his skin. He remembers being careful to ask for a white ink tattoo so it wouldn’t be as obvious. Only there for those who knew about it. David had certainly known about it. 

“But… This doesn’t make sense…” Luis whispers, eyes not moving from Leo’s arm. 

Leo almost wants to roll his eyes. He’s an expert on ‘this not making sense’ by now, but he reins in the sarcasm. “Trust me, I know.”

Masche finally tears his eyes away, and looks at Leo seriously. “Does David know about all of this?”

“Kind of. I tried to tell him, but he didn’t believe me.” Leo chokes a little on the last few words and looks away. Fuck, he is not going to cry. 

Masche pulls him into a hug, and it’s warm and friendly and everything he didn’t know he needed. It’s a friend. Apparently he’s wrong; he is going to cry. 

Luis places a hand on his shoulder. It’s anchoring and right now he feels safe. Secure, between two people who actually believe him, who finally get to some extent what he’s gone through, finally grasp the relationship between himself and David. It’s so wonderful because he’s not alone anymore. Well, he is; they still don’t understand completely. But at least they’re happy to pretend to understand for him. That’s enough for now.

*

The sun glares uncomfortably overhead, somehow always in David’s eyes no matter which way he sits. Lucho gives him what’s probably a stern look behind shaded glass and yells, “David, stop lying around. This weekend could decide the league! No time for sunbathing!”

Somebody (maybe Sergio?) sniggers, and he glares at his manager. It was alright for him, he had sunglasses on. He grumbles and pulls himself to his feet, shooting Geri a death glare. He was the reason David was on the floor in the first place with his crappy tackle, but the defender just smiles angelically back. What a dick.

He’s avenged five minutes later when Leo manages to score and shoots him a confusing grin. He ignores the way his heart flutters, and flips the finger at Geri instead with a smug grin. Lucho still hadn’t learnt not to put him with Leo in the training matches. Maybe they couldn’t physically touch but they were so in tune with their football, they practically wrote symphonies with their feet. David didn’t understand it, but sometimes these things just happen, don’t they? He feels like he had something similar once, but he can’t place where. (He knows Leo would have an explanation for that, but they aren’t really speaking right now beyond the usual pleasantries.)

Lucho finally calls for a break so they can go and get a drink. He purposefully avoids the little huddle the MSN have got going on, even when Leo looks at him with a longing invitation. It would be awkward. And anyway, behind Leo, Luis has got a bitch glare almost as good as his own trained on him. He briefly wonders what he did as he slumps by Geri instead. 

Masche’s sitting nearby – the two of them are chatting about politics or something boring, but they pause when David sits. 

“Davicito! What brings you to us?” Geri grins. Masche’s giving him a calculating stare. It’s strange – what is going on with everyone today? His team is fucking weird. Maybe that’s why he loves them, but he’s not usually the focus of the intensity.

He turns his attention back to Geri. He did not appreciate being called small. “I just wanted to ask you something.” 

Geri tilts his head suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Did that goal just now look even better close up? I couldn’t tell.” He honestly can’t help himself.

Gerard groans and lazily tries to kick him without moving. “Why the fuck did we buy you? You’re an asshole.”

“Probably because you’re such a liability at the back, old man.” He sticks his tongue out and laughs at Geri’s mock indignation. Masche shakes his head indulgently at the two of them. 

“You two are awful. I thought Geri was bad with Leo.” 

“I’m not bad with anyone!” Geri responds loudly. Although he does everything loudly. “But I’m better with Leo.”

“A lot of people are better with Leo,” Masche responds, looking at David sideways, in a way he doesn’t get. Like he’s supposed to understand a statement like that.

Except he kind of _does_. There’s a rush of agreement in his chest as he thinks about how much better his football (and for some reason, more?) is with the other man. And he responds with a wistful “I know,” without even thinking. Masche turns his head and looks at him sharply and his eyes widen in shock. Geri doesn’t notice anything, but David jumps to his feet and runs inside the training complex for the toilet, recognising that familiar, horrible, rising sensation in the back of his throat. 

Ten minutes later, after hacking and choking in a toilet cubicle, he manages to pull himself together to join back in with the training.

“You alright?” Leo whispers to him after Ney’s scored at the opposite end of the pitch. Apparently Leo’s decided to ignore the conversation they’d had before as well.

“Yeah, just needed the toilet.” He whispers back, feeling guilty for lying. He’s just glad he didn’t faint this time. 

The game continues; Luis and Ney have finally switched on, but David has Leo and Andrés on his team. There’s a lot to be said for having the best midfielder in the world on your team, and Leo’s presence speaks for itself. They link up well, the three of them, constantly causing havoc around the smaller training goal. David dances around Marc and comes face to face with Geri who looks victorious – until he realises David’s already passed the ball. 

And Leo’s already put it in the back of the net, where Claudio’s staring in irritation.

“Keep up, old man,” he yells as he runs to congratulate Leo. He hears Geri howling, “I swear you’re older than me!” but tries to disregard it. He still can’t shake that feeling of being in the wrong body he’d picked up months ago in New York.

He holds a hand up for Leo to high five, bracing himself for the pain. They’ve worked out a system without even mentioning it – it’s necessary that they still do stuff like this, in case someone else questions them. The pain is worth everyone else’s ignorance.

But this time, the pain doesn’t come. Their hands meet, but that’s it. No fire racing down his arm, no tingling, burning sensation left over. It’s _liberating_ , and Leo looks the way he feels when their eyes meet before they look away awkwardly. Maybe this is a sign; a sign he’s getting better. Maybe the sickness and fainting will stop as well? He dares to dream, and he’s so caught up in it that he doesn’t even notice the counter-attack until it’s up the other end of the pitch, eyes still sneaking confused glances at the dark-haired Argentine. 

He looks up just as Ney receives the ball from Sergio. The Brazilian takes a couple of steps before feinting at the last moment to fool Mathieu, but he misjudges his own steps. His foot lands on top of the ball and rolls sideways, his ankle at a sickening angle. There’s a yelp of pain, and David doesn’t need to be near the younger man to know that this is _bad_.

He instinctively looks to Leo for reassurance, the Argentine having done the same. Their eyes meet, Leo horrified, before both of them race up the pitch. 

Fuck.

*

(David’s vision goes red. That little punk did _not_ just do that. He would fucking kill Ramos. It didn’t matter that he was already going to be sent off, it didn’t even matter that it was Leo he’d just kicked over (except it really did). 

He’s so angry, he’s ready and fired up to start a brawl over this, because nobody’s allowed to kick his teammate and just get away with it. But there are already four or five people in Ramos’ face, and there’s someone on the pitch who’s much more important than some stupid defender from Sevilla.

Leo’s still on the floor and there are medics now – that’s not ok, not the way things are meant to be. He runs over to the smaller, quieter crowd and gets himself where Leo can see him. And seeing his face makes everything okay again, because he’s in pain but he’s still here – that’s what counts. They could work around anything else.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, it's someone else getting hurt other than David or Leo! I'm sorry, Ney :/
> 
> Also, mini headcanon time: Geri likes to call David Davicito, the -cito being a Spanish diminutive suffix implying small. David occasionally likes to make a fuss of Leo as he's smaller, and Geri swoops in to save Leo from too much fluff and remind David that he's pretty damn small as well. He never really makes fun of Leo's size though - it's only David that gets petted and nicknamed and leaned on in the most obnoxious way you could possibly imagine until Leo intervenes, rolling his eyes at the general immaturity of everyone around him and telling Geri that maybe he occasionally likes to be made a fuss of. At which point, Geri grumbles and goes off to call Cesc and lament how nobody is any fun any more, and that Cesc should totally come back. For... science. Totally. ~~Fabriqué is almost definitely canon.~~


	11. The Immortal Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY. I have a bunch of reasons it's been a while (most revolve around me being a bad person), but here we are. Unless I'm mistaken, this is the longest chapter so far. Clasico time ;D Please enjoy!

Leo idly swings his legs on the bench, his eyes closed. He knows he appears calm – he’s spent ten years perfecting this look – but inside his heart is racing. Not in a bad way; he’s excited. Really, really excited. Because across the hall is the away team locker room, and inside is the one team he’s still wary of. 

Real Madrid.

But it really doesn’t help that Neymar’s out– his accident in training had been bad, worse than they’d all initially thought. He would be out for three months minimum with a broken ankle at the worst point of the season. Leo’s heart went out to Ney, not just because it’s a massive loss to the team – the kid had been absolutely devastated. And Leo _knows_ , he’s already had his own injury this season but it didn’t mean he’d miss the end of the season. He didn’t miss El Clasicó either, although it had been close. Nobody wants to miss this match.

On the other hand, and he feels awful for even looking for a bright side, David would get a start now. He wouldn’t have usually had that opportunity. And playing with David is the closest he gets to the past now. Maybe they could repeat that glorious 5-0 win, although they didn’t have Xavi anymore. He can still remember that match – he hadn’t scored, but a certain somebody had scored two of his own…

Leo opens his eyes and watches his teammates with a nostalgic smile. They aren’t the same team they were four years ago, but maybe they can be better. Maybe they can write their own history tonight. 

His teammates are all getting ready in their own way, regardless of whether they’re playing or not. He sees Luis kiss his wrist, Claudio write a note on his shin with a biro before covering it with his shin guard, Ivan tap his feet on the ground in a rhythm only he can hear over Geri’s shouts of encouragement and pre-emptive victory chants. Leo’s still unsure how his best friend is basically his polar opposite, but it’s one of life’s mysteries. 

Sort of like the quiet Asturian sitting next to him. He has his eyes closed, mouth moving with silent words, hands on his knees. Leo loves the sight of him like this, tense and excited and getting ready to win. It’s just like old times, and his heart aches for the moments when his eyes would open again and smile victoriously, as if he already knew the score line and the match itself was only a formality.

This time he still smiles, but it’s curious and unsure when he sees Leo. As if he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react. Leo tries not to look disappointed. He keeps getting his hopes up – why is he always surprised when they come crashing back down? It never gets easier.

Lucho picks that moment to walk in and the room is quiet, just like that. Geri climbs down from his stool in respect and Sergio pulls out his earphones. David and Leo reluctantly look away from each other.

“I’m not going to overcomplicate this. We win, and we’re eight points clear of Madrid. I’m not going to say it gives us the league, but it puts us well on our way. Tonight, we’re not just playing for pride – we’re playing for Neymar. We’re going to win it for him.” Lucho speaks with such certainty that Leo believes him – they would win tonight. They had to.

There’s a ripple of agreement around the room and they all stand up, unified in their goal. Leo looks at David next to him, and they make a silent agreement, just the two of them. Tonight, Barcelona would dominate Spanish football.

He joins the back of the line in the tunnel – he likes to be the last one out onto the pitch, and Luis is the one in front of him tonight, the golden number nine glowing in the dim lighting. Further ahead, he can see David, the unfamiliar 27 on his back. There’s only one number seven playing on the pitch this evening, and he’s wearing a bright white shirt and looking at Leo’s team like something he scraped off his shoe. 

“Hey, Cristiano. Good luck tonight.” He calls across the tunnel, and several people stare at him in shock. They all expect the two of them to hate each other.

Cris smiles back at him with his perfect teeth, distaste forgotten. “You too. You’ll need it more than we do.” 

Leo laughs. Nobody understands it except them, but the two of them get along. There’s something about being at the top for so long – the longer you go without falling, the more you hold onto what’s around you. And strangely, Cris was one of the very few who had understood how much it hurt when David had left. Leo still remembered helping him through Ricky’s departure, and the Portuguese man had returned the favour a year later. 

He still would have forgotten David like everyone else, forgotten the reason that their friendship works both ways but it seems it had at least survived, and Leo’s truly grateful for that. 

“Keep talking, Cris, we’re still five points ahead of you.” He winks, and laughs at the answering scowl. They both fall quiet – Pepe is glaring at Cris in the same way that Luis’ now looking at him, a clear message: no fraternising with the enemy. 

He doesn’t see the jealous stare that Cris is receiving from David, too busy thinking about the way he would glide through defenders in a couple of minutes. No mercy this evening. Ramos had been a bit _too_ cocky lately.

The two teams march onto the pitch to chants, cheers for the home team and boos for _Los Merengues_. Leo loves playing at home, his fortress. The Camp Nou seems to stretch on forever on clear nights like this one. He glances around as the anthem plays, enjoying the familiar sights, finally looking to the opposition goal and visualising the many angles a goal could fly in, _have_ flown in from. He’s ready. 

They all shake hands before taking their positions, Leo opposite Luis in the centre. The whistle blasts, and the crowd screams as Leo makes the first touch.

The first goal comes quickly too; after passing the ball back and forth, he picks out Ivan on the left wing, who crosses it into the penalty box, and Luis is on the other end like he’s been standing there all day. A quick glance at the clock; three minutes have passed. 

1-0.

But then it swings back, and it always seems to go like this now when Barça score early. 

It’s far too easy the way the counter-attack races up the pitch, Kroos seeing James who sees Cris, who crosses the ball in to Bale for the easiest tap-in past Claudio, who went the wrong way and is left staring in frustration as his net shakes tauntingly.

1-1.

Leo glares at Geri (why had he been trying to play the forward, _again?_ ) but lets it go. They can easily rescue this. As long as they stay tight. 

Only they end up drifting even further apart. Leo has the ball, but for once his concentration is somewhere else when Pepe slides in for the tackle, taking it cleanly away. He stares in disbelief for a fraction of a second, just glad that he’s still on his feet, but the ball is knocking around between the Real midfielders now and the high-intensity pressing game isn’t getting them anywhere.

Leo worries for a moment. Because when this happens, it usually doesn’t end well. He rolls his shoulders back in determination. That would have to change, wouldn’t it?

Marcelo charges past him, providing another option to the other team, and the ball’s out wide on the left, but Jordi’s still in the middle. The cross goes into the box, and Cris’ head rises above the others, smashing the ball into the top corner.

1-2.

Crap.

Eighteen minutes gone, and they’re losing. At home. Not acceptable.

And it’s annoyingly easy how they manage to repeat the same trick two minutes later. Only this time, there are far less players in the box, so Cris is able to volley it in instead. 

1-3.

There’s an air of excitement among the opposition now as they gain momentum, and Leo can see the way his own team is losing form and shape as their hope disappears as well. They need to be winning in midfield to win the match, but he’d put money on Real Madrid having had more of the possession right now. 

Cris winks at him as the ball gets passed back to the centre, and he wants to punch him in his stupid nose. Friendship is a strange thing.

He gets touches of the ball but there’s always someone harrying him – the few times he gets a shot or pass away, it’s always deflected or lost. Zidane’s finally managed to find a Madrid that can defend, and it’s embarrassing right now. 

To Barcelona’s credit, it’s another ten minutes before Real even manage a shot on goal. Unfortunately, Claudio can’t see where it’s come from until it’s already passed him, and it’s Benzema taking the victory run this time. 

1-4.

Leo glances over to Lucho who’s thrown himself back into his seat in disgust, to the VIP box where he knows Ney is sitting, probably angry and miserable after only 35 minutes, down to the other half of the pitch where Geri’s stalking murderously and Claudio just looks so, so disappointed in himself, to Luis who looks impatient and angry. (He made a mental note to keep an eye on him, if he got sent off for getting into a fight…)

And finally, to David. Always back to David. He catches the forward’s eye, and sees the same frustration and annoyance thrumming through his core as in his own blood. Something changes in his face though when he makes eye contact with Leo, and Leo feels his mouth twitching into a challenging smile as his skin tingles. His heart lifts when David smiles back, an un-worded agreement. They’d gotten through worse together.

Bring it on. 

It’s impossible to describe, but something changes in the way he plays; he’s finally clicked into sixth gear, the one no one else can reach, and it begins to show. It’s like he’s suddenly remembered how to move so the other team can’t even touch him, let alone take the ball, and he manages a dribble past one, two, three defenders, counting them as they fall. Keylor clears the ball at the end, but he doesn’t care. This is just his warm up. 

Four minutes later, he receives the ball from Andrés and when Ramos comes in for the tackle, he can sense the empty space to avoid him. So when the Spaniard’s leg comes sweeping in, Leo just _moves_ , and suddenly he’s through, past him, and Leo can’t get the ball in the net from this angle, but-

David can. Sideways pass, side-footed volley.

2-4. 

The whistle blast is almost lost under the roar of the crowd. Leo grins, because they’re two goals down, but he could sense it in the air, in the _‘Messi, Villa, Messi…’_ of the crowd, in the delight on David’s face as they embrace in pure and simple ecstasy after a fantastic goal and there’s no answering pain racing through his veins.

They are still going to win.

*

Half time passes in a blur of nervous anticipation for David. Everybody looks a little more hopeful, but Lucho is anything but complimentary. After he’s finished raging about the non-existence of a defence, he pauses.

“We’ve still got half the match left. You can still win this. And if one more goal goes in, even a penalty,” he pauses. “You don’t even want to _know_ what I’ll do.” 

David can’t really remember being more scared of a manager, and he whispers as much to Leo who just laughs at him. He can tell the other man is too excited and prepared to be scared, because he’d seen the look on his face when David had converted his pass to score that goal. 

It wasn’t defeat, or acceptance. It was pure defiance, and it had made David shiver with delight. Maybe he’s lingering over the ensuing hug a bit too long in his mind as well; maybe it’s because it had been such agony for such a long time that he enjoyed it so much, just the pure novelty of it.

But he knows that isn’t quite right. And he isn’t sure when a small, healthy amount of hero worship had turned into something more. He likes to think that it’s just admiration, purely professional. But again, that’s not really true. He enjoys Leo’s company a lot off the pitch as well, and maybe the reason he was so freaked out in the hospital wasn’t just because it sounded so weird. Maybe he didn’t like what he was being told, because he was jealous of himself. Of what Leo believed they’d used to have, of what _he’s_ starting to believe they might have had in the past. 

_Maybe_ , he might be willing to admit he has more than a little crush on Leo. He doesn’t really remember anything that Leo had mentioned, but if it is true, he can understand how he fell in love the first time, even if he can’t remember it. (He _hates_ that he can’t remember it.)

Everybody stands up, and he clumsily follows, having missed the end of what Lucho was saying.

The Madrid players are still buzzing as they climb the steps back up to the pitch, and David can’t wait to bring them down, to see their massive biggest-club-in-the-world egos deflated. Because the sight of the green grass fills him with fire and energy, and he slaps Leo’s and Luis’ shoulders in encouragement as he returns to his starting position.

The pitch comes alive again, but this time _Barcelona_ are dominating, like they should; Andrés and Ivan look so much more confident in the midfield, Geri keeps his head and stays next to Masche, and David loves this team when they play like this, like the best in the world that they are. 

But it’s Leo, always Leo who catches his eye as he weaves around defenders ruthlessly, running circles around them as he keeps looking for the way in. He’s cutting their great rivals to pieces and it is bizarre how he doesn’t score in those first ten minutes of the second half, but the frustration in the away team begins to grow. 

And David’s just wondering how no players have been booked yet in a match like this, when Ramos dives in too late for a slide tackle. (Of course it’s him.)

Leo hits the floor rolling, quickly sitting up with a look of quiet triumph as the yellow card comes out. He’s the only one on the pitch who looks anywhere close to happy, because David is not the only one who goes in complaining. (He doesn’t really want to get in a fight, he’s just really happy that Leo pulled himself up, if he’s honest.)

It takes the referee a couple of minutes to finally shut them all up, during which time Luis and Cristiano also pick up yellow cards for dissent and David himself gets a warning.

But then it’s just Leo and David standing over the ball, waiting for the whistle. And it’s clear, straight away, where the ball’s heading as Leo runs up and lofts it artfully over the wall and shakes the net with the beauty of the free kick.

3-4. 

The crowd screams with delight, the familiar chants pouring around the stadium and David yells with them, running in to join the team celebration. But not for long – they all realise there’s still a way to go before this one’s over. (None of them can suppress the rising hope that’s bubbling like laughter in their chests though, and the smile that David and Leo share as they return to the middle makes him shiver.)

David lets himself think – only for a second – that if they pull this off, it could be one of the greatest come backs in football history. Maybe he’s being overdramatic here, but this… this could be amazing. Still half an hour to go.

The Real Madrid defence get themselves together, but Leo never stops, Luis never stops, David never stops, and he loves seeing the confidence in the other team begin to fade as their midfield loses impact and Barcelona just keeps coming, wave after wave of pure attacking football.

There’s only ten minutes left – David begins to worry that it was all for nothing – but then Leo makes one of those passes, from the middle of their own half up to the left wing to where Jordi’s made a spectacular run past the defenders and David gets into the box, ready for the cross.

It doesn’t reach him, as Suarez’s head launches it towards the goal, towards Navas who gets his fingers on it and punches it away.

The rebound _does_ , and he makes no mistakes.

4-4.

He runs to the crowd and slides through the grass on his knees, bellowing in victory. They aren’t there yet, but they’re inching closer and they’ve salvaged a point now as well.

They’re so close now, David can feel it. The energy is still pulsing through the team, while Real has faded considerably. All the pieces look to be working fine, but they aren’t together any more, and David laughs with exhilaration, how the two teams have switched positions. 

Of course it’s Leo to tip the scales though. He presses Modrić for the ball, wins it, and never stops. Past Kroos, he spins it past Pepe and then David almost gasps as he nutmegs Ramos at the edge of the box. The defender slips as he tries to turn, and David’s in a position for the pass, so is Luis across from him, but neither of them are needed as Leo fires it, low and hard into the bottom left corner.

5-4.

And if David had ever doubted it (not that he had), he knows now why the fans chant and praise Messi like a god. Because seeing it from the stands is one thing, but being up close when he pulls out something like that, is just – wow. Fucking hell. There are no words really for someone like that. He certainly can’t describe how the man makes him feel.

Leo runs and punches the air in delight before turning back to the pitch, pointing at David in delight, and he’s dumbstruck for a moment – what had _he_ done? – before racing over to Leo. He picks him up in delight, and something just feels right about having him in his arms. Maybe that should freak him out as well, but he’s too fucking happy right now to care as the rest of the team joins them. 

All they have to do now is run down the clock and they’ve won, but fortune is smiling on them today; although in a very strange way.

They’re nearing the end of extra time when Ramos finally loses it, and David could almost clap his hands with glee, because honestly, it didn’t matter how old he got, that man was a time-bomb in these matches.

Luis has the ball in the box, and he’s getting ready to shoot when the Spaniard comes clattering in. Luis, being Luis, exaggerates the fall but there’s no getting around the straight red card which comes out and the point to the spot. Ramos storms off the pitch, having the sense not to start anything else, and the referee just _glares_ at his teammates until they shut up.

Leo comes over to where David and Luis are standing by the penalty spot, a slight smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

“Who’s going to put this one to bed, then?” He asks quietly, hand over his mouth, victory evident in the way the rest of his face is moving.

David grins back. Luis is the one to speak.

“All yours, Leo. Just don’t miss.” He winks, and David nods. Leo had been amazing. He’s a little disappointed he won’t get his hat trick, but if Leo gets one instead, then he honestly deserves it a lot more.

It’s like a cloth falls over the stadium as the noise drops and Leo stands over the ball alone, eyes narrowed in concentration. He moves and the ball’s in motion, Keylor diving the wrong way as it’s buried in the middle of the net and the whistle blows for full time.

6-4.

The crowd goes wild as the anthem begins to play once more, and David runs towards Leo with the rest of the team as he runs to the crowd to celebrate, and David can imagine his face even if he can’t see it, picture it in his mind. Because he’s the little genius who caused this come back, conducted this orchestra in front of the crowd of almost a hundred thousand people, and David could kiss him right now, he’s so happy. 

They all pile on top of him in delight, because this is the best way to win; what is football without drama? They chant and jump and laugh together, at this amazing victory, at downing their greatest rivals in such a way – this match would be remembered for a _long_ time, David’s sure of that. 

Eventually the rest of them drift away, and it’s just David holding Leo. Something about it takes him home. He ruffles his hair affectionately, letting him go. He turns to find Pepe walking towards them, face somewhere beyond pissed off.

He’s ready to make peace, a small spike of fear in his heart, but Pepe pushes him out of the way before shoving Leo forcefully, who lands on his backside in shock. Pepe’s snarling something but David doesn’t understand, because his vision’s gone red with anger and the only thing he hears is _thud thud thud_ , his pulse heavy in his ears.

He jumps up and pulls the solid defender back from Leo and starts shouting something, probably filled with curse words and taunts, because nobody, _nobody_ , touches Leo like that. He’s beyond angry, it doesn’t matter that he’s a lot smaller because nobody is allowed to fuck with David’s _pulga_ -

“Guaje!” The shout from behind him stops his thoughts. He freezes and doesn’t respond when Pepe pokes him in the chest or Cristiano wrestles the defender away or the rest of his team run over, screaming in anger at the Portuguese man. He’s turning the words over and over, ‘ _guaje, pulga, guaje, pulga_ ’ echoing on and on, smashing together in his skull, trying to fit together in a thousand different places. Because they fit so perfectly together, but David doesn’t understand _why_ -

“David?” The voice says again, quieter this time, concerned, and David turns to see Leo staring at him from the ground. 

“Leo?” He croaks, and tries to take a step forward. His knees buckle and the ground rushes up to meet him.

*

(“David?”

“Yeah, Leo?”

“You know I love you, right?”

“How could I forget?”

“Dick.”

“I’m serious! How could I forget how much _I_ love _you_?”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I wanted a big, over-dramatic match! Maybe I wanted Leo to get a little love from some fans :( (Or maybe I'm a petty fuck who didn't want Real to win the CL XD) Again, sorry Guaje. Thinking I should adopt that as my motto. Hopefully next chapter will be quicker? A lot of it's written, but I need to check it; this is the first I've seen of my memory stick in weeks, it's probably complete trash. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all!


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